


ice to see you

by slaapkat



Category: Stargirl (TV 2020)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Drabble, Hook-Up, M/M, Open Relationships, The ISA Polycule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaapkat/pseuds/slaapkat
Summary: It’s not usually like this. Really, it’s not.Usually, when either of them are feeling that heart-wrenching pang of the death of their wives a little too much, they go seek out Larry Crock, usually a man only all to eager to entertain their respective trauma’s so long as he got his rocks off. It was an unsteady little arrangement, a weird little open secret within the confines of the ISA. Not even Paula minded, though her marriage to Larry was all for show, anyways.Tonight, however, Paula had decided to take Larry on one of their rare “date nights”. Whatever poor soul they were going to land in a shallow grave at the end of said date night was hardly any concern of Jordan’s. What was his concern, however, was that with their usual mode of distraction busy, it left Jordan and Henry alone with just each other.Regrettably, they make it work.
Relationships: Henry King Sr./Jordan Mahkent, Jordan Mahkent/Henry King Sr., Lawrence Crock/Henry King Sr., Lawrence Crock/Henry King Sr./Jordan Mahkent
Comments: 75
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princegrantaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/gifts).



> written originally for a prompt sent by my dear ol pal @ufonaut and decided to put here to raise awareness of the isa polycule. sometimes you just gotta sleep with each other to forget about your dead wives you know :/
> 
> not my best work, but i had fun writing it and now we all have to live with it forever

It’s not usually like this. Really, it’s not.

_Usually_ , when either of them are feeling that heart-wrenching pang of the death of their wives a _little_ too much, they go seek out Larry Crock, _usually_ a man only all to eager to entertain their respective trauma’s so long as he got his rocks off. It was an unsteady little arrangement, a weird little open secret within the confines of the ISA. Not even Paula minded, though her marriage to Larry was all for show, anyways. 

Tonight, however, Paula had decided to take Larry on one of their rare “date nights”. Whatever poor soul they were going to land in a shallow grave at the end of said date night was hardly any concern of Jordan’s. What _was_ his concern, however, was that with their usual mode of distraction busy, it left Jordan and Henry alone with just each other.

Regrettably, they make it work.

_Making it work_ , as neither of them are willing to argue positions, apparently entails Jordan sitting at the edge of his bed and Henry on his knees, shirts unbuttoned and pants undone, hair in equal states of dishevelment thanks to an earlier misguided attempt at making out in Jordan’s bed before the large mirror which made up his headboard made both parties uncomfortable enough with the matter to switch gears. 

Henry’s licking at him, slow and methodical like he is with everything else his life, his tongue a long, hot stripe against the length of his cock. The heat is maddening enough on its own, but for man made of ice it becomes downright intoxicating. Jordan moans before he can help it, leaning back and letting his eyes flutter shut at the sensation as Henry continues, swallowing him whole with unexpected eagerness. It’s _bliss_ , and Jordan is just as eager to lose himself in it all. He’s not about to pretend this _isn’t_ Henry who he’s doing this with, but there remains just enough separation from it all on both sides that it’ll do well enough to chase their respective demons away for one more night. 

Henry, at least, is an active participant. He’s pressed close, taking Jordan in deep, breathing harsh and steady through his nose, an unusual amount of concentration dedicated to the task at hand. Jordan sighs, and drinks in that steady heat of arousal pooling in his belly--

_Jordan_.

Jordan swears and sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, cringing at the intrusion into his mind; it’s never any more pleasant than the first time and he honestly half suspects Henry never bothers to even _attempt_ to make it so, always barging into your thoughts like he belonged there. Regrettably enough, it does little to take Jordan out of the mood. “ _What_?”

There’s a pause, and Jordan’s almost willing enough to brush it off as a mistake on Henry’s part, as ridiculous as that is on it’s own, before he feels that too-familiar intrusion into his mind once again. 

_Jordan, I’m stuck._

“What do you _mean_ you’re--” it’s then he finally looks down, exasperated and frustrated with the lack of progress all at once only to freeze.

Figuratively _and_ literally, it seemed.

Usually, Jordan likes to think he has a pretty decent handle on his powers. He’s lived this long, after all. Sometimes, things do slip through the cracks, such as when he’s sleeping or he’s--

Excited. 

Like now. 

Henry is utterly still, looking up at him through his brows. Patches of Jordan’s skin had gone frozen and crystalline without his notice, spreading down his abdomen and his-- well. 

Suffice to say, the wet heat of Henry’s mouth around his cock does the exact opposite of melting him down. 

Jordan must take too long staring, mind struggling to grasp what to do, when he feels Henry pushing into his thoughts once again insistently, accompanied by a tug as he tries to pull away to prove the point and _can’t_ , tongue stubbornly refusing to unstick, frozen to him. _Jordan, cease this._

“I--” Jordan starts. Squirms a little under Henry’s accusing glare. That, too, does little to take him out of the mood. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

_Clearly_. Another tug, this time accompanied by a whimper on Jordan’s part and a frustrated huff on Henry’s. _How long until this resolves itself?_

“It... may be a while,” Jordan admits. Doesn’t admit that, paradoxically, the whole situation actually doesn’t help. An annoyed prodding against his mind indicates Henry could probably guess anyhow. He hears him make a muffled, mildly dejected sigh.

_I should have called Lawrence._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s called Netflix and Chill for a reason."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is becoming an icewave collection, now, depending on how much I write! Another drabble prompt, making part of a separate collection since these are both kinda nsfw and the main collection considerably. less so.

_Frozen_ is playing on TV. Jordan might have initially thought it some poorly thought out joke on Henry’s part, an attempt at emulating Larry’s predilection for terrible ice and cold puns, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. He’d stopped by to discuss how Hank had been bullying Cameron as of late, hoping to come to some sort of compromise of how to resolve it. While clearly disinterested in the matter at hand, Henry was at least willing enough to entertain Jordan’s concerns just long enough to land them both on the couch. Hank was away at some jock party but would be home soon enough. Jordan could talk to him then, but for now they could both wait here.

Watching _Frozen_. There were worse ways to spend the night.

It’s during _Fixer-Upper,_ with Jordan’s thoughts beginning to wander, when he feels the sensation of a hand sliding up his thigh like a white-hot brand through the fabric of his suit pants. The intent is obvious and impossible to ignore.

“Henry,” Jordan breathes, biting back a gasp, though does nothing to prevent the way Henry’s hand slides further inside his thigh, squeezing. “Henry. What are you doing?”

Henry moves closer to him on the couch, the whole lean length of him now pressed up against Jordan’s side, leaning to murmur into his ear. “It’s called _Netflix and chill_ for a reason, Jordan.”

Jordan pulls a small frown, if only because his initial interpretation of the phrase remained at odds with Henry’s actions, who– further emboldened by his lack of resistance –seems to have staked a claim on his inner thigh, hand coming precariously close to certain, more sensitive parts of his anatomy. He might have thought it another poor joke if not for the vague familiarity of the phrase.

“You were thinking about _her_ again.” Christine. Barbara. Didn’t matter who. Honestly, Henry probably didn’t even have to read his mind, but his tone isn’t even verging on accusing. Simply stating facts, at most maybe a touch disappointed. He usually is whenever it comes to Jordan’s frankly embarrassing obsession with the woman. “You know, you don’t need to.”

Henry’s close enough now that his lips brush against the shell of Jordan’s ear, his voice a heated whisper. Yes, he knows. He also knows exactly what Henry is offering him. It’s not hard to figure out.

Jordan swallows with some difficulty. “So make me think about something else, instead.”

As it turns out, Henry achieves just that by making him think about nothing at all.

Jordan rocks and sighs through a shuddering moan, hunched over where he braces himself against Henry’s chest. It’s not often that they _do_ it like this, though it’s certainly not the first. Henry, laying back on the couch and gripping tightly at Jordan’s hips, sets the pace, uncaring or otherwise inattentive to Jordan’s enjoyment, solely focused on the matter at like like it was merely another one of his experiments.

Even then, every part of Henry is _hot_ , intoxicating and painful all at once to skin already seconds away from freezing over as it is. Puffs of super-cooled air accompany every gasp that claws its way out of Jordan’s throat, a harsh contrast to everything that Henry _is_ , hot breath and sweat and skin.

 _That’s it_ , Jordan can hear Henry coo encouragingly inside his head. Any other time Jordan might have hissed at the intrusion but here he clings to in hungrily, the single thought occupying his otherwise muddled and clouded mind, too far gone to care. _That’s it. Don’t think._

Jordan’s all too willing to comply, rocking back into every thrust of Henry’s hips and committing thought to little more than that, breath hitching when Henry reaches to wrap his thin fingers around his neglected cock, whimpering when as his thumb brushes across the head. He’s quickly going frantic for the release that won’t quite come.

“I– I need to–” Jordan gasps out, his words trailing off in a simpering whine. “I’m gonna–”

_Then do it._

It’s all the permission Jordan needs. He comes with a bitten-back sob into Henry’s hand, gasping as all his breath seems to leave him in one fell swoop. Henry only grunts in response, thrusting up into Jordan’s pliant form with renewed intensity until he finally gasps out his own release, nails digging into Jordan’s flesh harshly enough to leave divots. Jordan falls forward and sags against Henry’s chest, uncaring of the stink and sweat and stickiness between them, content to have his mind remain blissfully empty.

It’s almost nice.

“Alright, bud!” A loud whoop and an enthusiastic clap of hands disturbs the peace; Henry and Jordan both groan at the immediate realization of the culprit, who had evidently let himself in while they had been otherwise– _busy_. Larry rounds the front of the couch, grinning in that maniacally eager way of his. “Alright! Great work team! What say we hit the showers and get ourselves ready for round two, huh?”

It maybe says something about Jordan that he’s not altogether against it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm @slaapkat on tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "if you are interested, maybe crusher/Henry?(they're the only two in the polycule I haven't seen together yet and I think they'd have such an interesting dynamic. Potential prompt: why am i doing this again?)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sequel to my buddies equally excellent polycule drabble [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185216/chapters/63922897)

“Now, where were we?”

Larry’s overly casual, debonair attitude catches Henry off-guard, still struggling to comprehend the implications of just how regularly this happens if all parties involved can be so inordinately _blasé_.

As blasé as one can be about shattering into a thousand pieces right after coming, anyhow. Jordan sure faced it with a disturbing amount of resigned familiarity. Vaguely, Henry has to wonder how often this occurs to necessitate the addendum of _this time_ on Larry’s part and has to swallow back a curl of discontent at the thought. 

He’s _above_ emotions as petty as _jealousy_ , obviously. 

“What do you _mean_ ‘where were we?’” Henry asks flatly, watching with some kind of morbid fascination as Larry rather uncaringly sweeps the jagged shards of what was once _Icicle_ off the bed and onto the floor; to _chuck into the freezer_ later, presumably. 

“Oh, you know,” Larry replies blithely, wiping the ice melt off his hands just as casually on the sheets. He turns that ever-predatory, shark-line grin to him. “I still gotta take care of _you_ , don’t I? _C’mon_ , bud, you really think I’d leave the _both_ of us hanging?”

The melting remains of Jordan notwithstanding, Henry can’t deny that he is still hard, as is Larry. The rather unfortunate truth of it all being what just happened had very little effect on either of them. As displeasurable as Henry had found Larry’s effect on Jordan, he can’t deny Larry induces a certain– _reaction_ in him, as well. Perhaps it was the wolfish air to him, the feeling that Larry could just _take_ and suffer little to no ill consequences for it. Perhaps that was what had endeared Jordan to him all this time, coming back again and again. 

Intriguing, Henry had to admit. As he leans back against the still ridiculous mirrored headboard, away from the already advancing Larry, a hunger in his eyes and grin stretched wide.

“Unfair, y’know, that you got to keep _your_ pants on,” Larry remarks, only vaguely threatening in that usual way of his, and while out in the field such a tone risked sparking annoyance or insubordination, here, it– Henry has to swallow, with some difficulty. He was not expecting this strong of an effect. His cock strains against the fabric of his pants. Larry’s manic grin does not abate for a second. Henry lifts his chin in some effort to retain some semblance of control, sending out a spike of his power as a warning. _Don’t overstep your bounds_.

Bafflingly, Larry doesn’t even flinch. Henry frowns and flexes his power again. Larry only tilts his head, almost inquiringly, and leans down until he’s level with the hard line of Henry’s cock. Still grinning.

“Why aren’t you…” Henry starts, but trails off shakily when Larry, distinctly unfazed, brazenly licks him through the fabric, root to tip, maintaining direct eye contact all the while. “W-why am I doing this again?”

“Because Jordan likes to get his shit rocked, an’ you like to _watch_ ,” Larry retorts with a leer, almost challenging in the way he still refuses to drop eye contact, unzipping Henry’s pants and nudging down his underwear until his cock was freed, hard and dripping. He lets out a low whistle. “ _Wow_. A tighty-whities guy, huh? Also, I know _you_ like to get your shit rocked on occasion, too. Why don’t you let ol’ Crusher here take care of you?”

Henry doesn’t really get much of an opportunity to answer and Larry doesn’t wait for one regardless, swallowing the entire length of Henry whole with no warning to speak of, and it’s all Henry can do to not lose control on himself right then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brainwaves powers don't work on sportsmaster because his mind is just eye of the tiger being played on loop <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hiya! Throwing a fun stargirl prompt your way! [Henry/Everyone] Hi! Throwing a Stargirl prompt your way, hopefully something fun. In the ISA's humble beginnings, Brainwave had a plain outfit (that screamed pls ignore me) before deciding to elevate his costume game. The ISA +AND+ a few select members of the JSA were NOT prepared when he debuted his new look (New haircut, form fitting leather that hugged EVERY curve, the gloves, boots) AND his new power strut."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only managed maybe half the prompt, but I hope it's still okay!

Despite popular belief, designing your own super costume-- whether hero or villain --isn’t all it’s cracked up to be after all. Frustratingly enough, it remains easier for some than others.

Wizard, for instance, embraces his schtick with all the flourish of a kid’s birthday party magician and dresses exactly like one to boot, ridiculous Dick Dastardly mustache and all. Gambler, in turn, chose to embrace the southern dandy image his accent tended to invoke. Tigress looks like _The Most Dangerous Game_ personified whereas Sportsmaster looks like he raided the local high school’s gym closet after seeing one too many repeat showings of _Friday the 13th_. 

Even Shade and the goddamned _Fiddler_ , of all people, choose to dress to impress, each looking like their own respective ideals of a Victorian ne’er-do-well. 

The Dragon King, is… well. _The Dragon King_. 

All in all, it’s really not any more or less silly than the heroes-- what with their often eye-blinding use of primary colors --but they at least still serve to be intimidating when the time calls for it. 

Save for the two self-described _leaders_ of the whole operation. 

Jordan stuck with simplicity for Icicle. Shock and awe was never his thing, to begin with-- a coat rugged enough to withstand the strength of his cold powers, a simple shirt, and not much more than that. He didn’t _need_ much more than that, the silent killer of the ISA. Seeking attention was antithetical to his purpose.

Henry was similar, though for his own reasons. Less attention on him meant less thoughts bombarding his own mind. He was unassuming enough as it was in his day to day life, owlish wireframe glasses and slim black turtleneck in all. He did barely more than that as Brainwave, opting for a long, dark green cloak to mask his relatively stick-thin appearance. No need to actually be imposing when you could kill with a thought. 

It _worked_ for them. And that’s what mattered. 

Until it didn’t, apparently. 

It’s not like _Henry_ to be late for a meeting. Jordan notes the time on his watch and taps his fingers against the table impatiently, looks around at the rest of the ISA gathered at the table, talking idly amongst themselves. They needed to reconnaissance for an upcoming mission, parts and technology Dr. Ito needed to begin work on their American Dream project in earnest, the final plans needed to finally take down the JSA once and for all. By all accounts, an _important_ meeting. Not often something Jordan can legitimately claim. 

“I’m calling this meeting to order,” Jordan ultimately declares, standing, after another minute without Henry ticks by; as a _psychic_ , the man could well enough glean everything he needed to know from their minds. “In the absence of Brainwave--”

_In the absence of_ **_whom_ ** _?_

Jordan flinches out of instinct, still unused to the intrusion, and turns with the intention of leveling a near-literal icy glare at their late team member, only to stop in his tracks with his breath caught in his throat. 

Henry, by all accounts, slinks out of the shadows, tall and proud with his chin held high, and absolute air of superiority surrounding. For good reason, too. He looked-- _different_. 

Gone was the assuming middling little nerd Henry before had worked so carefully to curate-- _now_ , it seemed, with the defeat on the JSA so near on the horizon, he’d finally decided it was time for Brainwave to mean _business_. 

The cloak had been abandoned in favor of a tight-fitting leather ensemble that sought to hug every curve on Henry’s body, accentuating his already long and slender figure, his wiry mullet tamed down to a slicked-back, immaculate comb-over, glasses discarded to allow the full brunt of his piercing, strikingly green eyes. Equally striking shining leather boots clung to his calves, lengthening legs that already went on for _days_ on their own, and inky black gloves to lend to the overall untouchable air about him. To call it a _makeover_ was an understatement-- he was a vision in intimidating darkness and leather. Jordan maybe feels his mouth go a little dry. 

He catches himself gaping when Crusher’s sharp wolf-whistle rings out loudly, interrupting the silence of the room.

“Hot _damn_ ,” Crusher whistles, grinning eagerly and making no effort to hide the way he was blatantly checking Henry out as he looked him up and down. “You finally trade in that snuggie, Brainy? About time, I’d say.”

There’s a low murmur of agreement amongst the others, even Gambler begrudgingly admitting that Henry’s new look was something to behold.

“Apologies for my delay,” Henry remarks blithely, coolly regarding the rest of them. “Putting the finishing touches on my new… _uniform_ ran longer than expected. Now, if we may--?”

Jordan swallows with some difficulty, unable to tear his eyes away from the way the leather clings to every curve of him; heat pooling in his belly at the same time Jordan has to consciously control the frost threatening to spread from where his hands meet the table. He has to fight a startle when Henry then levels that piercing gaze on him, now made all the more actually intimidating by the threatening figure he now cuts. Absently, Jordan hopes Henry neglects to pick up on any particularly regrettable thoughts that are now threatening to pop up. 

“Ah-- yes, we may,” Jordan says, clearing his throat, and shakily continues on with the meeting. 

\---

The meeting went-- not _well_ , but it went. Jordan was glad for it to be over, making his excuses for a hasty escape the second he was able. The sheer effort it took to keep his thoughts from straying-- Henry’s long, nimble fingers in those gloves, the curve of his waist in the jacket, his _legs_ \--tantamount to torture. He couldn’t afford to have Henry hearing any of that, his grasp on leadership as tenuous enough as it was already. What he needed--

What Jordan needed was some choice alone time.

\---

Home is the safest possible place he can think of. It’s by pure luck that his parents are still out for the night with Cameron. He secludes himself in his bedroom and locks the door for extra measure. If he were capable of sweating, Jordan was sure he’d already be drenched with it. As it is, he can already see his breath puffing out in front of him and feel the creeping chill of frost along his temples.

He has his hand down his open pants in an instant, the heel of his palm pressing down hard on the half-erection he’d been struggling to stifle since the moment he’d laid eyes on Henry’s new outfit. Jordan falls back onto his bed with a moan, arm thrown over his eyes and it’s not long at all until he hurriedly strokes himself to full-mast, gasping out as he swipes his thumb over the slit, spreading the precome. It’s _pathetic_ , he knows, to so quickly and urgently brought to this level by something so simple as the sight of Henry in a new uniform-- but at the same time he can’t help it, caught by that vision of darkness like an animal ensnared, at the mercy of the fantasies his traitorous mind kept providing. It felt like Henry towered over him now, long and slender with an intensity to him that made Jordan want to cower beneath him. Pathetic, and _yet_ \--

Jordan comes in a rush, back arching and gasping for air as it’s punched out of him all at once, choking back a groan. 

When he sags back into the covers, he realizes belatedly he’d frozen over, as had most of his room-- a shockwave of frost and ice spreading out from where he lay. Shame, for once, burns high in his cheeks, embarrassment following closely behind.

God, he’d really-- he’d just--

Jordan dejectedly wipes his hand off with a grimace. It was a matter of weeks before he had to endure Henry in person, again. With luck he’d have control of himself by then. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "LOVED your Larry/Henry drabble, maybe an encore? Sportswave origin where Jordan wasn't available or had to call it off and they're left with each other? What happens when you leave two dominant personalities in a room with each other?"

_Crusher_ …

It’s almost quiet enough to escape Henry’s notice, Jordan’s flighting little thought among dozens of others at this exact moment. Henry’s concentrating on the task at hand, so singularly focused on the body beneath him-- the steady, methodical pumping of his hips, Jordan’s legs wrapped loosely around him, the man in question laying there with his back arched ever so slightly as he gasps and writhes, puffs of frigid air escaping from his lips with every breath --that he very nearly takes no notice of it until slurred moan of the same word follows suit not long after.

“God, _Crusher_...”

Henry frowns before he can help it. _Crusher_? He was under no illusion that he and Jordan were exclusive-- an admittedly rather suspect codependent relationship that only started to begin with due to their respective neuroses from being widowers --in fact, he was _well_ aware Jordan tended to visit Larry Crock on the side. Whatever Henry couldn’t provide, Larry supposedly had in abounds. 

That, Henry had no problem with. To each their own.

What Henry had a problem with was _Jordan_ thinking of _Larry_ while he was with _him_.

Jordan lets out a whine and it’s then Henry realizes he’s stopped. Jordan arches again, huffing, trying to prompt Henry to pick it back up, opening his eyes a crack to glare impatiently.

_Move it._

Henry’s frown deepens, brows furrowing in annoyance. Is Jordan ever as demanding with _Larry_? No-- Henry’s walked in on them enough times to know first hand Jordan is rarely ever even coherent enough to string together a single thought with Larry. 

_Fuck me like Crusher_ , comes another thought that Henry manages to catch, pleading and desperate and _breathy_ even within the confines of Jordan’s mind. Whether or not Jordan is actually intending for Henry to read his mind is a non-issue-- what spurs Henry to continue, nearly scowling in his annoyance as he thrusts back into Jordan at a significantly more punishing pace, full of intent and with the sole purpose of scrubbing any mention of Crusher from his mind, is the sudden spike of jealousy he feels at his own apparent inability to escape that idiotic meathead even _here_.

Henry, for once, gives it his all. Jordan keeps thinking Crusher. Henry despairs just slightly.

\---

The Crock family often stays out late. For as much as the rest of the ISA has committed to the act of small-town community leaders, _Larry_ and Paula had taken to it about as well as you’d expect. 

Paula was out doing-- something. Stealing, killing, whatever. Henry hardly cared. Larry was just now getting home. Henry could sense the bloodlust still lingering on his mind from where he was seated, his thoughts still carrying the tang of violence and a heated undercurrent of what was undoubtedly _arousal_ just beneath the surface. How primitive.

He’s waiting for Larry when the lights turn on, seated primly in an armchair and his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Larry doesn’t even startle, an easy smile sliding onto his face when he sees Henry, for all the world looking like he expected it.

“Oh, _hey_ , bud!” he greets, grinning now, over-eager and with an almost delighted sort of casual mania about him. “What’s up?”

“Jordan thinks of you,” Henry provides flatly, attempting to stare him down but oddly finding himself strangely unnerved by how easily Larry holds it and stares back, wide-eyed and fervent. He frowns. “ _Constantly_.”

At that, Larry laughs, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “What, seriously? That’s _it_? That’s what’s got you brooding in your leather daddy getup in the dark? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Henry’s frown deepens further. “I came to see the reason why,” he edges out, very nearly a growl. “I _allow_ this arrangement because we both stand to gain from Jordan’s frivolous--”

“ _Nuh-uh_ ,” Larry interrupts cheerfully, wagging a finger as he steps forward. “Sorry, Brainy. You don’t ‘allow’ anything. Jordan just likes to get his rocks off and we’re the folks to do it. Although…” Larry’s voice lowers to a purr as he leans down into Henry’s space, smiling indulgently, and winks. “If you were just wanting to see what all the fuss was about, all you had to do was _ask_.”

Henry scowls. He’s not sure he likes what Larry is implying. “What _fuss_ , indeed.”

\---

“Oh, _God_.”

“Alright then, bud, _alright_!”

Larry’s voice is high with ecstatic, manic glee, ringing out loud and clear above the rhythmic pounding of his headboard against the wall as he fucked into Henry with all the enthusiasm he could muster, hands gripped tight around his skinny hips while Henry’s heels dug incessantly into the small of his back, spurring him on. Henry’s head was thrown back, gasping out _Crusher, Crusher, Crusher_ in a breathless endless litany of praises, lips red and kiss-bitten, darkening bruises already climbing up his neck from where Larry had laid claim to him earlier. 

“C’mon, Crusher’s got ya,” Larry encourages through a heated whisper, lips brushing the shell of Henry’s ear as he continued pounding into him all the while. “C’mon. C’mon. You’ll do it for me, won’t ya? I’ll even let ya take a peek inside the ol’ noggin, if ya want. Is that what you want?”

Henry forces himself to glance up, biting back a moan as he struggled to gather the wherewithal to focus his powers, a middling weak little tendril just manages to reach Larry’s thoughts--

He comes with a shout in an instant, the entirety of his mind whiting out with the force of it. 

\---

As Henry lays there, sweaty and panting as Larry’s too-hot body sidles up next to him, he maybe sees what all the fuss was about after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm @slaapkat on tumblr!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster/Brainwave - BULLY BOY - "Sometimes, Henry has to be bullied into submission." [Larry is amused because Henry thinks he has the upper hand. He has powers, sought HIM out for a romp, told him to go to HIS mansion, and is somehow still under the impression that he is in control. Henry just wants the good D but loathes that he has to get it from the sports fanatic. These are guys decades out of high school, but that nerd/jock dynamic is still HELLA strong.]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follows pretty soon after [the previous drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185534/chapters/64356838)

The worst part, actually, is how Henry can _not_ stop thinking about it.

It. _Him_. Larry. 

It’s frustrating beyond belief, and any efforts sought to seek relief are sorely wasted. Even worse-- he can’t even take out said frustrations out on _Jordan_ , away on some business trip and not due to return anytime soon. Not that it stops Henry from trying.

“You know I had to deal with some important business, Henry. I can’t just leave.”

Jordan actually manages to sound genuinely mournful, for once. Maybe it wasn’t as hard as Henry originally thought to guess his intentions, even over the phone. 

“I would… _appreciate_ your company,” Henry says stiffly; he can’t bring himself to just outright _say_ it, not any closer to admitting to Jordan that time spent with Larry left him with a prodding, inescapable hunger than he was to himself. It was embarrassing. The least he could do in the meantime was attempt to play at Jordan’s tendency to roll over at the slightest provocation. 

He can hear Jordan shift on the other side of the line, sense his breathing pick up just slightly. “Well,” he says, sucking in a breath. “I mean. Why not give La-- Crusher a call? I know you two--”

“ _No_ ,” Henry answers immediately, sharp. 

Jordan huffs in his own frustration. “Can we compromise?”

\---

‘Compromise’ apparently entails an attempt at phone sex that Jordan gets into much too fast and leaves Henry feeling distinctly bored and unsatisfied.

Jordan’s heavy breathing dominates the line, the shuffling of clothing and the softer wet sounds of Jordan undoubtedly pleasuring himself following closely behind. It’s all terribly pedantic, and almost pathetic with how easy it is to set Jordan off while Henry maintains a steady monotone drone throughout.

“And then what,” Henry says flatly, rubbing at his temples. Purely going through the motions. 

“And-- and _then_ \--” An audible shudder. Henry rolls his eyes. Jordan soldiers on. “Ah. Hold on, I-- I gotta-- _Ah_. I gotta put down my phone before I freeze it--”

Henry hangs up.

Somehow even more frustrated and now with a distinctly uncomfortable tightness in his pants, Henry breaks down and pulls up a seldom-used contact on his phone.

_Come over. Now._

\---

Larry is rarely ever invited over and for good reason. Henry remembers exactly why the second the sports fanatic steps through the door. 

“Wow, fancy-schmancy, aren’t you?” Larry whistles, eyeing the maid as she bustles off after Henry dismisses her. Henry frowns but steps aside to allow him in nonetheless, closing the door behind them with what he intends to be a note of finality. 

Larry gives no indication of any perceived threat, turning to smile easily at Henry even as he does best to, as William Zarick was often so fond of complaining, _loom_. In fact, he seems to have already correctly guessed the ultimate intention of his rather abrupt summons, looking Henry up and down unabashedly and biting at his lip. Already fighting the feeling of being flustered, Henry lets his scowl deepen. _He_ was in control, here. _He_ would be the one calling the shots _this_ time. 

The feeling lasts for about as long as it takes for Larry to take a single, deliberate step forward, a smirk on his lips and challenge in his eyes; in spite of Henry’s best efforts, he’s already well enough guessed the game he was playing, too. Henry’s jaw sets as he stares down Larry in turn. In spite of this, he finds himself being backed against the wall as Larry continues to approach, prowling like an animal on the hunt.

Just as well, he could likely already smell the blood in the water. 

“You got any plans, Brainy?” Larry asks, tilting his head, perfectly innocent.

Henry swallows audibly despite himself, feels his control fraying by the second and hates it. God, as loathe as he was to admit it, the lengths he was going to _just_ to avoid admitting to himself this was _exactly_ what he wanted.

“No,” he answers, jutting his chin out in a final show of defiance, adjusting his glasses on his nose just slightly. Larry doesn’t buy it. He grins, all teeth. 

“Oh, _good_ ,” he says breezily, leaning in close. He reaches out to cup the already visible tent in Henry’s pants, grin stretching wider as the gasp it elicits. “Actually, you may wanna clear the rest of tomorrow, too.”

\---

Against all odds, Larry’s manages the impossible and has him there right up against the wall. The height Henry holds over him is nothing in the face of the strength Larry wields, meta-given or otherwise. He holds Henry up effortlessly, juggling all his gangling limbs with almost practiced ease, cooing encouragement all the while. Larry has one of Henry’s legs hiked up for easy access, the other loosely wrapped around his waist, pants lost somewhere along the way. He mouths messily at Henry’s neck as he drives into him, hips pounding away steadily and fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. Henry’s already lost all pretense of pretending he hadn’t been aching for this since that first time all those weeks ago, moaning unabashedly as he grips tightly at Larry’s shoulders. 

Pathetic. _Pathetic_. He can’t believe himself, acting nearly as wanton as Jordan usually did, how could he just let Larry take control like this--

“Next time,” Henry gasps out, doing his best to level Larry with a glare in spite of the locks of sweaty hair brushing into his eyes, rocking up against the wall with every thrust. “ _Ah_. Next time-- _I’m_ in control.”

Larry merely hums, smiling plainly, reaching up to plant a wet kiss right on Henry’s cheek. “You keep telling yourself that, babe.”

Next time, Henry ultimately decides, he’s dragging Jordan down with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm also @slaapkat on tumblr!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Next time, Henry ultimately decides, he’s dragging Jordan down with him." °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° Crusher's been BUSY. All-day coach, an evening "hunt", then a romp with Jordan after his return. Henry, a man on a mission, shows up unexpectedly hoping that Round 1 (Jordan) would tire Larry for Round 2 (Henry) to finally have the upper hand. Henry fails to realize that HE is actually Round 1 and Jordan was merely the ringing of the bell. [aka why does Henry keep falling for this shit?!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i PROMISE i'm still doing these but i've been working a whole lot lately so my energy is limited at times. these are always the highlight of my day, though!

The offices at the American Dream are a terribly boring and pedantic affair. Henry does his best to avoid them when he can. It’s nothing but the dull droning buzz of the various workers, their petty complaints and absent thoughts. Utterly mind-numbing in every imaginable way. 

And among that, _Jordan_.

Henry pauses just as he’s about to turn at the door handle, head quirked just slightly as though he’d heard something faintly just beyond the office doors. Jordan’s thoughts, like the rest of the peons he holds command over in this pathetic façade at improving the world, tended to lead towards the simple side. Rather than focusing on the larger plan at hand, he seemed to believe he was actually doing something _worthwhile_ there in Blue Valley, rather than preparing for their eventual dominance over half the country. 

He’d come to discuss _Project: New America_ in private, impatience creeping up on him since the last ISA meeting, the sensation that Jordan was dragging his feet for some incomprehensible reason gradually becoming too much to bear. He’d sacrificed too much to just keep waiting for whatever last detail Dr. Ito needed before his machine--

_Tonight…_

Henry’s eyes narrow, catching the tail end of Jordan’s thoughts once again. It takes effort not to barge in both physically and mentally, straining his ears for more.

Jordan’s thoughts are oddly wistful, eager, and-- _oh_. Henry’s mouth twists in displeasure and he retracts his hand in a reaction not unlike disgust. Jordan was thinking about _Larry_ , again. His _plans_ for later, all there in rather explicit detail. Henry wished he could say he was surprised. He makes an abrupt turn to leave, for once content to air his complaints at a later date.

However, he’s not as disappointed as he’d like to admit. 

As Henry’s walking away, he’s already formulating a plan.

\---

It’s maybe slightly more revenge than necessary. On which party, Henry isn’t exactly all that choosy. 

Larry isn’t at all hard to track. Out of all of them, he’s the one with arguably the lowest job among the ISA, content with managing a gym if only because it gave him the free time to bust some heads on the side whenever he was bored enough to pick up mercenary work for a little extra cash. It happens regularly enough that Henry can predict Larry’s behaviors to a reasonable degree of accuracy: a day in the gym, a night on the prowl, and the twilight hours spent burning off any excess energy with Paula, or on the occasions she’s unavailable due to her _own_ hunts, taking it out on _Jordan_. 

Provided all goes as Henry hopes, Larry’s-- _activities_ with Jordan will have exhausted him sufficiently enough that he might finally come out on top.

Petty, he knows, but Henry is often nothing but.

\---

It’s not at all difficult to tell they’re home. Henry can sense-- _them_ from a mile away. Their thoughts, or rather _Larry’s_ thoughts, swirling like a maelstrom above Jordan’s moderately unassuming home; Jordan’s, by comparison, had already been reduced to a formless haze, thoughtless and formless, no doubt already lost to the actions of the unforgiving body above him. _Pathetic_ , Henry can’t help but note, but for once it serves his purpose.

He enters through a key Jordan had given him in years past due to some misguided attempt at building trust. It’s deceptively quiet, but Henry knows well enough to follow the string up thoughts through and up the stairs, slowly and silently prowling his way through the home until at last he reaches Jordan’s bedroom. He’s not in the least bit surprised at what he finds beyond the door.

To say it’s a familiar sight would imply Henry’s walked in on such more often than he would like. 

Jordan’s ridiculous mirrored headboard, as always, dominates the room, forcing Henry to witness the whole scene twice over from every unfortunate angle-- Larry, bent over a prone Jordan, deep inside him with one hand fisted into his hair to keep him looking up into their reflections. Jordan’s eyes are glassy and unfocused, chilled air puffing out with every breath even as the rest of him is flushed with a rare actual blush-- though even from the doorway, Henry can see the ice beginning to tinge his cheeks. Larry spots him right away as he lingers there in the doorway, but does nothing more than allow his already manic grin to stretch excitedly wider, continuing to thrust harshly into the pliant body beneath all the while. He actually _winks_ at Henry through the reflection, causing Henry to frown at the arousal it inadvertently stirs, and leans in closer to Jordan to whisper something into his ear.

Whatever it is that he says, it’s apparently enough to snap Jordan back to reality in an instant, who only seems to just then notice Henry’s appearance, a stricken expression overcoming him that is obvious even from a distance, eyes going wide as they dart from the reflection of Henry’s looming form in the doorway to Larry as he pulls out and away-- but does nothing to stop any of it. 

“ _Hey_ , bud! It’s about time,” Larry greets easily, unabashedly naked and even more unapologetically, blatantly still _hard_. Henry keeps his gaze staring steadfastly ahead, ignoring how his own arousal continues to build steadily within, the sight of Jordan still laying there on the bed, watching them both guardedly, turned over to reveal his own arousal still obviously apparent as well.

Henry begins to consider, perhaps, he’d made a mistake in his eagerness.

“‘About time’?” Henry echoes, and knows he’s made a mistake the instant Larry tilts his head and flashes another toothy grin in reply as he draws nearer. He nods his head towards Jordan. “What did you say to him?”

“Pssh, nothing too important,” says Larry casually, waving Henry off. Impossibly, he draws even closer, and even more impossibly, Henry allows it. Larry leans in close, whispering hotly into his ear as well. “Just that he can do whatever he wants, he just can’t finish without me. I thought it was high time _he_ got to watch for a change. How’s that?” 

The worst part is Henry actually finds himself considering it, gaze sliding over to where Jordan still lay, watching. He’d come too early-- Larry was clearly just getting started, Larry had clearly, it seemed, _planned_ on this. There was no getting the upper hand here. 

Larry’s hand slides down his chest, casually and slowly working at undoing the buttons of his blazer. Henry does nothing to stop him, even as the blazer slides off him to the floor and Larry dips his fingers under the hem of his shirt and mouths at his neck, pushing a thigh in between Henry’s legs, confirming the erection that was slowly making itself known and encouraging Henry to grind against him. 

Henry locks eyes with Jordan, now, determined. Jordan’s expression grows distressed, a quivering pout threatening to take his lower lip as he can do nothing but _watch_. It suddenly excites Henry more than he can say.

He gasps out when Larry suddenly bites, and drinks in the look on Jordan’s face as Larry licks over the skin and begins dragging him back to bed. 

It seemed there was more than one way to come out on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me at @slaapkat on tumblr!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you're still taking prompts but how about Author's Choice/Icicle - SHOWER SEX 🙏

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope it's not too obvious i started running out of steam towards the end... i tried to make it funny still! lmao

It’s always difficult to get a word in edgewise whenever Larry gets going. His hands roam hungrily all across Jordan’s body, sucking at Jordan’s neck and paying absolutely no mind to Jordan’s half-hearted protests as he drags them along the bedroom.

He’s fresh from a hunt, covered in splatters of blood that may or may not be his. Larry’s touch burns like a brand wherever it brushes up against rapidly cooling skin, brushing blood along with it. No stranger to blood himself, there’s no shudder of revulsion along with it, the reason for Jordan’s hesitation– in spite of the mouth on his neck, the biting kisses, the hands clawing away at his clothes, the stench of sweat and musk –comes from the fact Larry was dragging him towards the shower, which Jordan gleaned from the way Larry growled against his mouth in the midst of a crushing kiss, something about how he _couldn’t wait_ and _two birds with one stone, huh, bud?_

“Crusher–” Jordan tries again when he comes up for air, gasping for breath, frost already beginning to gather and crawl across his exposed skin– high on his cheeks, across his collar where Larry’s torn his shirt open, buttons trailing the floor behind them. He groans when Larry chuckles as they finally make it to his bathroom and pushes him against the counter, thrusting a thigh in between his legs for him to grind on. Jordan whines, biting his lip as Larry abruptly pulls away and reaches back to turn on the shower. “Crusher, I– I don’t think getting in there together is a good idea…”

“Nonsense, bud!” Larry says easily, and when he turns that intense gaze back on him, this time Jordan does shudder; the black face paint is still messily smeared around his face, exaggerating the electric blue of his eyes, wide and manic even as the corners crinkle with amusement. He grins– always more of a baring of teeth than anything –perhaps in an attempt to assuage whatever worries he thinks Jordan may have. “I promise, I like my showers to run _hot_. Gets the muscles nice an’ loose, y’know? Just think of all the _moves_ we can pull off in there–”

Jordan whimpers as Larry dives back down to continue to assault on his neck, shoving the rest of his shirt off so that he could move on to Jordan’s chest, the sheer heat of his mouth leaving a clear trail in the ice quickly spreading across his skin. “Crusher, you don’t understand– I’m _colder_ than that, I’ll freeze–”

“Aw, don’t be such a spoilsport,” Larry interrupts, and has the gall to actually pout at him as he drags them both into the already steaming shower, having finally peeled off the rest of their respective clothing, bits of the Sportsmaster uniform and Jordan’s suit littered around them. “C’mon, it’ll be _fun_. You never done it in a shower before?”

“I _have_ , actually” Jordan gasps out against the shock of near-blisteringly hot water after Larry finally manages to shove him inside. “The last time I tried, Christine–”

“It’ll be _fine_ ,” Larry assures again, grinning wide and vaguely deranged. His hands settle at Jordan’s naked hips, hot even through the already boiling water cascading over them, and he crowds Jordan against the tiled wall. “Hell, go full ice if you wanna, you know I won’t mind it.” Larry winks. “Might even make it _hotter_ , y’know what I mean? Our own little private sauna, yeah?”

Whatever other argument Jordan has in protest dies in his throat in the next instant as Larry rocks his hips against him, devolving it into just another pathetic moan, as their cocks brush and send a shiver up his spine, goosebumps breaking out in spite of the cloying heat gathering all around them. 

“See?” Larry purrs, kissing up the side of Jordan’s jaw. “It’ll be _fine_ , I promise.”

—

And– it _is_ fine, for the most part. Larry has him up against the wall in no time, fingers digging into the flesh of his hips to hold him in place, fucking into him with impunity. The length of his body, pressed up against Jordan’s back, runs as hot as the water itself. His breath, too, is hot and loud in Jordan’s ear, near-deafening over the crash of the shower. Jordan’s crowded harshly against the wall, the grooves of the tile digging into his cheek as he pants and moans. Already, he’s too far gone for anything more than that, too far gone to even notice the frost spreading out from his buffs of breath, persisting in spite of the steam of the shower and the water sluicing over their bodies. If Larry even notices at all, he barely seems to care– if anything, the rapidly dropping temperature of Jordan’s skin only seems to entice him _further_ , an eager sort of growled laughter preceding another powerful thrust as he picks up his rhythm with renewed vigor.

Unknown to both of them, in fact, was the ice spreading from _all_ points of contact of Jordan’s body– where his hands clutch desperately at the smooth tile, where his feet scrabble for purchase against the floor, struggling to keep upright. The combined heat of the shower and Larry himself does little to impede it. 

Jordan whines high in his throat, almost _begging_ , eyes screwed shut as Larry latches onto his shoulder, pressing biting kisses all the way up the column of his neck and to the corner of his jaw, reaching a hand around to loosely grab his cock and begin stroking him in time with his unrelenting thrusts–

And then all at once, the sensation is _gone_. 

The first thing Jordan registers is the sudden uncomfortable emptiness, vaguely unsatisfying in it’s abruptness. The next is the near-immediate calamitous crashing of Larry, feet swinging out from under him, and the subsequent chilling _crack_ of his skull against the floor.

Time slows and very nearly stops. Jordan cautiously opens his eyes a crack and risks a peek behind him. Larry lies there, looking for all the world to be stone dead, surrounded by a damning sheet of ice that had grown across the floor and escaped both their notice. 

Jordan allows himself a small, whimpered _føkk_ , barely heard over the hiss of the shower.

—

“Jordan, I don’t know why you had to call me all the way over _here_ ,” comes Henry’s annoyed voice long before Jordan even sees him step through the door. “What ‘emergency’ necessitates forces me to come to _Lawrence’s_ house–”

He’s cut off the second he walks in on the sorry sight laid out in front of him, brows drawing together uncomprehendingly. 

Jordan jumps up from where he’d been kneeling by Larry’s still-unconscious body, eyes still wide with panic and nothing but a towel hastily wrapped around his waist. Another towel is draped rather unceremoniously over Larry’s privates in a rather pathetic attempt at preserving his decency– of which there’s honestly not much to be had, considering the extremely obvious tent right in the middle of it. Jordan had only managed to drag him halfway out of the shower, limbs splayed out around him.

“Thank god you’re here, I think I killed him–” Jordan blurts out, rushing towards Henry automatically. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? You can fix him! _Do_ something!”

Henry only looks distastefully between the veritable crime scene laid out in front of him and the pathetic display that was Jordan, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a suffering sigh. “I’m not that kind of doctor, Jordan.”

Jordan’s expression turns pained. “But you know first aid, don’t you?”

“So do you?”

“I’m naked!”

Henry sighs again. It was already proving to be a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that time jordan mentions with christine? well, he was one who slipped and that time he shattered his d*ck. rip jordan :/


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something with Icicle and Amnesiac!Brainwave? 🙏

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly headcanons and angst this time around!

The silence is perhaps the worst part.

The entire ride to the ISA headquarters Henry had been-- _quiet_ , for lack of a better word. Pensively staring out the passenger window of Jordan’s car. He’d come willingly enough, so Jordan wasn’t afraid of him backing out, just…

It’s haunting, in a way, to be so suddenly granted a glimpse of a Henry from a decade ago. Jordan remembers it well, and it instills an odd, almost uncomfortably familiar sense of longing in him. By all accounts, Henry looks the same, and _yet_ \-- his eyes are what enrapture Jordan, as they had back then. Stunningly bright blue and open, they betray the emotions of a man who hasn’t _quite_ learned how to mask them just yet. How, in the hospital, he’d listened with such intense intrigue and curiosity as Jordan poured out his hopes for the completion of a project years in the making, that Jordan _himself_ was finally beginning to believe it in again. 

It felt just like old times, complete with the flutter high in his chest and the bated breath, desperate for the approval of the one man he ever craved it from.

(Never mind that it’s tainted now, however slightly. Jordan knows Henry still grapples with the fact his wife is gone, knows that’s the reason for the silence as they drive, and finds himself secretly relieved in the fact that Henry is yet to know _how_ , exactly, he’s lost her. It’s only a matter of time, Jordan knows this too, but for now-- he selfishly covets these moments all the same.)

Henry doesn’t speak once until they reach the meeting room, having dutifully trailed behind Jordan throughout the damp and dark labyrinthine tunnels, and he comes to a stop in front of the portrait. He cranes his neck in the attempt to capture the immensity of it, a floor-to-ceiling veritable _masterpiece_ commissioned in the aftermath of their final victory against the JSA. A celebration of sorts, one of the few they’d openly granted themselves.

“Is this… _us_?” Henry asks, cautiously unsure, as though the extravagance of such a trophy was completely at odds with what he last remembered of the ISA. 

“It is,” Jordan enthuses, stepping closer to Henry’s side, unable to help the giddy smile that springs forth at the memory of the occasion. “A monument to our power. A reminder of what we can do. We _won_.”

Henry appears to mull it over, expression shuttering just briefly, and it’s another moment before he speaks up again, turning to Jordan, expression bordering on awe. “The JSA…?”

“Defeated,” Jordan answers, eyes widening with that same manic glee he’d had in the hospital while telling Henry of everything he’d missed. He goes so far as to dare and take Henry by the shoulders, desperate to drive the point home. “ _Dead_ , by our hands. Isn’t it incredible? We’ve come so close to achieving everything we’ve ever dreamed of.”

Once, it would have been considered impossible. Jordan knows this, is certain Henry still believes this. All the nights spent hunched over blueprints and plans together in a dingy shared apartment, the meetings with the then-fledgling ISA, the constant defeats and near-misses, the imprisonments and escapes. Villains did not _win_.

_They_ had.

Henry stares, as though he still can’t believe it, the sense of his awe increasing until he begins to share a smile himself, small and tentative as it was. It’s so-- unlike the Henry Jordan’s become used to, in the years since Merry’s untimely end, that Jordan delights in it more than he should. 

He wants to _keep_ it, as selfish as the notion is. Suddenly, the prospect of losing this side of Henry all over again steadily approaches terrifying. 

Henry had come to blame him for the death of Merry, but this Henry-- this Henry _didn’t_. He didn’t know, _wouldn’t_ know, not unless Ito _made_ him.

There’s the abrupt, traitorous thought that Jordan doesn’t necessarily have to take Henry the rest of the way. They could simply… _leave_. It likely wouldn’t take much convincing with Henry in his current state, the offer to run away and start all over. They could have each other again, _need_ each other again. It would be _perfect_.

“Jordan?” Henry speaks up, drawing him back to the present; his brows are furrowed with concern. Before Henry could take the chance to read his thoughts, Jordan smiles plainly and steps back. He can’t have this, no matter how much he wants it. He knows this.

This was the Henry that had chosen _Merry_ instead of him. All the longing in the world couldn’t change that. 

“It’s fine,” Jordan says. “I’m fine. Dr. Ito will see that you remember our victory, along with everything else.”

“And we trust him, this Dr. Ito?” 

The blatant, inherent _trust_ Henry has in him causes Jordan’s chest to tighten, a far cry from the man who had come to be loyal to him out of obligation only. The desire to run returns. The desire to be _needed_ remains, as ever. Jordan tamps them both down with as much force as he is able.

“We do,” Jordan assures, and settles for a comforting hand to Henry’s shoulder, light enough to be considered a beckoning and nothing more. He smiles, warm. It’s one of his better ones. “Come,” Jordan continues, leading Henry further into the depths of the dungeon. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”

\---

As the minions strap Henry into the chair, Ito pulls Jordan aside and slyly asks if there was anything he would like to _request_. Jordan considers the offer longer than he should.

“Yes, actually,” Jordan decides after a moment’s thought. Guilt threatens to settle heavily in the pit of his stomach, his intention to absolve himself of it only resulting in the opposite. Nausea roils in his gut at the same time and Jordan knows he can’t actually bear to see this happen. “Make him believe _he_ was the one who killed his wife. _Willingly_. That is all.”

A suspicious narrowing of his eyes is Ito’s only response, but he lets out a soft hiss of acquiesce all the same. Jordan makes to leave, but as he passes where Henry now lays on his way out, he pauses by his side. Henry regards him warily, as he does the rest of his surroundings. Nonetheless, the trust he has in Jordan persists. Jordan feels a minor tinge of regret. 

“I can’t stay, old friend,” Jordan says, almost mournful. “I have business to take care of back on the surface. I’ll be back when you’re better.”

He offers a smile and reaches to squeeze Henry’s hand; it’s the most he’s ever allowed himself, even back then. Against all odds, Henry squeezes back, smiling tiredly in reply.

Jordan turns his back and leaves before he can talk himself out of it. 

It was too late to stop everything now. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sportsmaster/Author's choice - SCARS - "Every scar tells a story." [I love the idea of Larry sporting (ha!) a huge variety of scars on his body, with him being able to proudly account where each one was made... Bonus, if this person that Larry is with unintentionally made a scar too!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot the bonus, unfortunately, and this ends with something of an inside joke that may not make sense to most, but i hope it's still enjoyable enough!

It’s in the aftermath of one of their usual couplings that Jordan finds himself unusually-- _clingy_ , for lack of a better word. He’s pressed close up against Larry’s side, greedily drinking in the warmth that emanates off him in waves, even as it leaves him sticky with sweat and other, considerably more unmentionable fluids. 

Jordan is, nonetheless, satisfied. Wore-out in the way only Larry tends to inspire. It’s how these trysts tend to go, and Jordan knows if he chooses to stretch right this moment he’ll only feel the soreness of a night well spent. It’s all a rather hedonistic mindset, Jordan is well aware, but for now he’s content to languish in the near-suffocating heat that was Larry Crock, languorously laid out amongst his tangled sheets, legs winded together and absently tracing shapes with a lazy finger on his chest.

It’s the closeness that he cherishes, too. It’s not something that he often gets with Henry, if at all. Larry is enthusiastic enough but ultimately provides a poor facsimile to the attention he truly craves. It’s a well-enough substitute in the meantime. That, more than anything, is what keeps drawing him back.

Jordan’s finger catches along the edges of a jagged scar that winds up Larry’s pectoral and across his shoulder, an old burn that’s definitely seen better days. Larry lets out a breathy little laugh as he notices Jordan focus his attentions on it, evidently entranced by the twisted whorls of flesh unlike any burn scar _he’s_ ever seen.

“That catch your eye, huh?” Larry says, lazily amused, still steadfastly caught in that languid post-coital bliss. He hums as he takes to tracing the scar alongside Jordan, as though reminiscing. “Oh, yeah. Thank the _Green Latrine_ for that. Didja know he’s _magic_? That fire of his isn’t _real_ fire. Still a real bitch to put out if it catches ya, though.”

It inspires a grimace of sympathy that Jordan can’t quite help, but it also encourages a surge of curiosity that he can’t tamp down. He’s seen Larry’s body countless times, but it’s only now the countless scars all across his skin catch his eye. People like them tend to have their fair share. He moves to trace an obvious old bullet wound just underneath the burn. “And this?”

Something about it causes Larry to suddenly brighten, grinning excitedly. “First jewelry store robbery, baby! Cop caught me by surprise. Broke my favorite bat payin’ him back for that one, but I _did_ learn to start wearin’ some real protection, so there’s that.”

When Jordan’s touch brushes over what looks like a series of claw marks with a quizzical expression, Larry outright barks a laugh.

“You _don’t_ wanna know,” he says with a mildly lecherous wink. “Let’s just blame it on Paula and leave it at that.”

“Oh,” Jordan replies. “Well. What about--”

“Also Paula.”

Jordan frowns. “And--”

“ _Paula_.”

“What does she _do_ to you?” Jordan says, exasperated and more than a little frightened; he’s shared the bed before with her on more than one occasion, and it’s only now he’s realizing just how lucky he is to have escaped with all his limbs attached. 

“Bud, you would not _believe_ ,” Larry grins, eyes glittering, and it’s certainly easily enough to believe the memory alone has him ready to kickstart round 2, rolling over onto his side to get a good look at Jordan beneath him. It’s then, however, his eyes catch on a scar of Jordan’s own. “ _Oh_? And what’s this?”

Larry brushes a thumb over it, an old stab wound near his lower abdomen, and Jordan has to fight from squirming, a blush threatening to rise at the touch and causing frost to gather on his cheeks. He tends not to scar too much, as a rule. His cryophysiology tends to protect from the most egregious injuries and the ice itself lends to a quasi healing factor as it is. So long as he’s injured while frozen, he can escape with little to no lasting reminders of battle.

Getting injured while unfrozen is a different matter entirely. 

It doesn’t help that the story attached isn’t particularly flattering. 

“Well, you see,” Jordan begins, and feels the cold spreading downwards as his embarrassment grows. “When I was… twenty, or so, I was, ah. Kind of in a fight club, and I got shanked.”

The kiss comes out of nowhere, startling Jordan though he sinks into the rhythm easily enough, as rough and hungry as it is.

“God, that’s _so_ hot,” Larry breathes as soon as they separate. He’s already managed to straddle Jordan again, half-hard in his excitement; it perhaps says something of Jordan that he’s not too far behind already. “Fight club, huh? Why don’t you show me a few of your moves?”

It perhaps says something more that Jordan doesn’t need much more convincing than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to neil jackson's wiki "In Wales, Jackson started competitive boxing, entering in the British Universities Boxing Championships, an inter-university competition held throughout the whole of Britain, and won the gold at light middleweight. He went on to successfully defend his title two years later at middleweight." but if you actually look up [his pictures](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9161e0cd7d0d696d16303b1802c2b0bf/7bee7895a0e2958a-a1/s400x600/07cdcdf0400ceefe194a001315f2d12875e1ac85.png) during this time, he really does look like he's part of some real actual fight club it's insane how is this man real


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s a freebie and uh. very much severely more pwp then anything i’ve written so far so here’s an idea i had while bored at work the other day. i hope it's decent? very hard to tell on my end but i couldn't let it sit.

It’s a night, rather disappointingly, like any other. A night spent poring over blueprint after blueprint, all in pursuit of the near-Sisyphean task that had become their _Project: New America_. Henry’s house, because Hank was out, and Jordan found his warm, if impersonal, manor to be a far more conducive environment for their plans than the cold and drafty tunnels below Blue Valley. 

Henry’s _bedroom_ , because like most nights like these, patience inevitably runs out-- equal parts shared frustration and boredom --and they deal with it the only way they’ve come to know how.

Jordan’s flush against a wall, held there by Henry, frost crawling across his skin and gathering at his cheeks, panting in time with Henry’s rhythmic thrusts. Henry’s methodical, almost _bored_. It’s become too easy, at this point, to rile Jordan up. Jordan’s voice pitches higher and higher as he gets closer to coming-- already, it’s _pathetic_. Henry even tells him so, tone dripping with clear disappointment and Jordan’s only response is a strangled moan and a deepening blush as he arches back onto Henry’s cock.

Too easy. Too _easy_. It’s time, Henry thinks, that Jordan actually _works_ for it, for once.

He waits until Jordan reaches the edge, breaths coming in shorter and shorter as he chases that end, that _relief_ \--

It takes no effort at all to put in a mental block at precisely the right moment. 

Henry can tell as soon as Jordan notices. His breath catches with the expectation of release, the almost gleeful anticipation of it-- and when it doesn’t come, _won’t_ come, Jordan’s thoughts stutter to a near stop in confusion. It’s not long after that Jordan must guess what’s happening to him, his breathing coming in quick, short, fearful gasps.

“Henry,” he pleads, quivering where Henry has him against the wall. “Henry, _please_ …”

Ordinarily, Henry’s not one to count himself as _cruel_. Unnecessary torture and the screams and begging that follow tend to give him a headache. He does not stop the steady thrusting of his hips, steadily fucking into Jordan with single-minded determination. The whimpers and pleas spilling from Jordan’s lips only serve to spur him on. There’s a certain delight to be found in it. Surely, Henry could allow himself a little fun just this once.

Ice cracks and spreads out from where Jordan has his hands braced against the wall. Henry pays it no mind as he presses himself closer along Jordan’s back, gripping tightly to his hips to hold him place through the quick and short, but no less incessant, thrusts. The temperature is rapidly dropping now, so much so that Henry can see his own breath as well as Jordan’s when he leans in to hiss into his ear.

_“Don’t freeze.”_

It’s nothing short of a demand, and one not lightly given. _Larry_ may enjoy the dangers that come with playing with Jordan’s… _unique_ physiology in the bedroom, but Henry did _not_. Jordan shudders, and a whine slips past his lips.

“Please, I-- I want to--” he begs, rather pathetically, attempting to rock back into Henry with every thrust. There’s frost on his cheeks, seams of ice already beginning to crack through his skin and tinging his lips blue. “Please, Henry, please let me--”

“If you freeze,” Henry threatens, low and steady and completely at odds with the way he’s still rocking into Jordan without pause, deceptively calm throughout it all. “I can _personally_ ensure you will never _come_ again.”

Jordan whimpers again, shaking all over, swallowing back a sob as he reigns in the ice at Henry’s behest, the cool, cerulean tint making way for a hot, flushed red. Henry merely hums his approval, nosing at Jordan’s neck to place a kiss right below his jaw in a rare show of affection.

_That wasn’t so hard now, was it?_

Jordan shudders again, gasping out for a release that still won’t come. “Please…”

_Why? I rather like the look of you like this._

It’s easy to get under Jordan’s skin, flustered and desperate for relief in any way. He’ll come crawling back no matter what, Henry knows, enticed by the scraps of affection he’d been given and blinded by the hope that they could mean something more. It has the exact reaction he expects-- Jordan squirms against the wall, desperation driving him to seek out friction against his neglected cock from any source possible, too distracted to have the wherewithal to actually reach down and take himself in hand. 

So, Henry takes it upon himself to do it for him. 

Jordan cries out when Henry touches him, jerking against his hand in an aborted half-thrust of his own, caught between rocking into Henry and arching into that friction he so desperately craved. It’s not _enough_ \-- Henry keeps his grip loose and noncommittal, even as Jordan grows increasingly frantic in his desperation to get off. 

“God, _Henry_ ,” Jordan begs, his voice cracking. His breath comes in punched out gasps with every thrust Henry lays into him, words trailing off into a breathy moan when Henry deigns to swipe a thumb over the head of his cock. “Henry-- Henry, _please_ \--”

Henry’s so close now himself, encouraged by the pathetic desperation in Jordan’s voice and the hot gasps of air he pants out every time he drives into him. It would be so _easy_ to just leave Jordan like this-- wanton and wanting, hoarse from begging, flustered and flushed and debauchered without having found any semblance of relief at all. 

Easy-- but Henry doesn’t count himself as cruel. 

Mostly.

“Say it,” Henry says, flat, edging on demanding. There’s no room for argument in his tone. He can feel Jordan shiver underneath him at his words. “Tell me what you want. _Clearly_.”

“I--” Jordan tries, cut off with a moan at a particularly punishing thrust. He swallows with some difficulty, struggling to string a thought together as Henry begins slowly stroking him with uncommon gentleness. It might have been kind were it not its own brand of torture-- a tactile reminder that he wasn’t going to find relief until Henry gave it to him. “I-- I _can’t_ \--”

“You can,” Henry murmurs, a poor facsimile of soothing. He lets his grip tighten around Jordan’s cock, delights in the whining little gasp it elicits. “Enunciate. Say it. Tell me.”

He can see Jordan’s close to his breaking point, can sense it-- tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, lips red and puffy from the force from gnawing on them in desperation, flushed and panting, aching for release that won’t come. Henry drinks in the sensation hungrily, greedy with it. 

Jordan might be in control of the ISA, but _Henry_ was in control of _him_.

“Please,” Jordan finally forces out, low and quiet in between near-hyperventilating breaths. “Henry. Please. Let me come. _Please_ …”

Henry hums, as though considering. Jordan begins to shake, the strain of holding in the frost and ice taking a clear toll on his body. He _is_ crying, now, overwhelmed and overstimulated, pleading for relief, hot tears freezing to ice cold cheeks. It’s been long enough, Henry supposes. He plucks away the mental block.

The reaction is near immediate. Jordan comes like it’s punched out of him, crying out with a choked-back sob, gasping for air like he can’t get enough of his and spilling into Henry’s hand as he strokes him through it all the while. His knees shake and might have outright given out were it not for Henry still behind him, holding him up through his powers and the arm he’d snaked around his waist to steady him. Jordan scrambles for purchase against the wall, legs weak and wobbling and unable to provide any more resistance against anything else Henry had against him. Henry, for his part, loses all pretense of his once-methodical manner. He crowds Jordan against the wall, fucking into him with renewed fervor, face burying his face into Jordan’s neck and panting against his skin, mouthing kisses wherever he could reach, greedily riding the tail-end of Jordan’s orgasm to fuel his own.

When Henry comes, it’s a touch less dramatic, though no less intense in its own right. The voices in his head quiet for _just_ that moment, the world narrowing down to just the two of them for those precious few seconds. Henry sighs his own relief, hips rocking slowly into Jordan as he gradually rides it out.

They stand there, in silence, the only noise between them their shared heavy breathing as they each sought to catch their breath. Jordan’s loose-limbed, barely holding himself up, leaning heavily against the wall and only remaining upright by sheer virtue of the arm Henry still had wrapped around him. Eventually, Henry collects himself and straightens, pulling out as he steps back, but does not relinquish his hold on Jordan. Jordan cringes and shivers, but otherwise makes no move of his own, falling back into Henry’s chest.

Henry makes a face, slightly displeased, but nonetheless holds him up. He wipes his hand on Jordan’s shirt with similar distaste.

Jordan’s still flushed, the cold creeping back in around the edges, eyes half-lidded and glassy, barely aware of the world around him as Henry guides them both to his bed. Henry’s prepared to just-- leave him there until he regathers his wits, but for as pliant as he is in that moment Jordan is as stubbornly clingy as ever and Henry finds himself dragged into the covers along with him.

He thinks to protest-- Jordan’s much too close, his thoughts too _present_ \--but Jordan’s slowly returning cold provides an unexpected soothing balm between their overheated bodies, sticky with sweat. 

Jordan rolls over onto Henry’s chest and sighs. Henry allows it.

There are worse ways to end the night. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SPORTCICLE PROMPT LARRY IS ENTRANCED BY THE TUMBY IN THE THERMAL SHIRT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG TIME NO SEE FOLKS! I promise i'm still accepting prompts, and will get to all or most of them eventually! school and work is just kicking my ass again as always, but I will make it through!

The act of dressing and undressing is an inherently awkward one. No one really thinks about it all that much, so ingrained into the daily routine that barely any thought is given to how it might look to the average outsider at all. The sometimes slightly unsteady balancing act of putting on pants, the stooping down necessary to put on and tie shoes, that split second of fumbling blindness when a shirt is being pulled over one’s head. An awkward act made exponentially more so when one finds themselves pressed for time. 

It’s _silly_ – the entire concept of a _uniform_ for heroes and villains alike, for as much power as it may lend to their self-confidence while out in the field, Jordan can’t help but think about the ridiculousness of it all while in the midst of changing. Suiting up might be one thing for someone such as Sportsmaster or Brainwave, both leaning heavily on the intimidation factor to make up for losses elsewhere– Larry for how frankly ridiculous his entire concept is generally, and Henry for his utter lack of physical prowess. 

Jordan, personally, had strived for simplicity when constructing his costume. Combat boots, heavy overcoat and canvas pants atop a thermal shirt that clung close to his body. Gathered together during his early days as Icicle and never changed for lack of any reason to. He was on a mission and any superfluous additions to his appearance risked getting in the way; the most he allowed himself was the intricate key hanging from the necklace around his neck, his one connection to his homeland. 

Of course, _simple_ went right out the window when in a rush, as Jordan was now. It was a mad dash to get ready– the children were infiltrating the tunnels at this exact minute while he fumbled and hopped around his pants, the discarded items of his bespoke suit leaving a visible trail into the rarely used ISA locker room.

( _Rarely used_ being something of a misnomer, considering the _Gym Rats_ made frequent use of the space, the only ones on the team who really _could_ make any use of it.)

Jordan curses as his hands shake and he fumbles the loop of his shoelaces again and starts over. His mind– _races_ , still thinking about the way Henry had so thoroughly wrenched control of the whole project from him, had taken over the _team_ with nary a protest from _anyone_ , Jordan included. 

(This wasn’t what he wanted, this wasn’t the _plan_ –)

He’s distracted enough, so intently focused on tying his goddamned shoes like some kind of preschooler all while the memory of Steven harping on him to _stop the children_ plays on a cursed loop inside his head, that Jordan doesn’t realize he’s no longer alone until he stands to grab his coat and suddenly becomes aware of the solidly warm presence behind him, barely any chance to register it before two equally solid arms come to wrap around his middle. The hard edge of a mask presses up against his shoulder, inspiring a wave of relief and anxiety all at once.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that ratty old coat, Icy,” Larry purrs, pressing up close now. Jordan swallows, antsy to get moving but far too willing to sink back into the warmth behind him. They were in a hurry, they didn’t have _time_ for this–

Then Larry gives him a squeeze. 

The temperature of the room plummets in an instant, Jordan feeling the beginning of frost gather at his cheeks in a unique imitation of a furious blush and he has to fight back a small squeak of indignation at the way Larry’s fingers sink into the soft flesh of his middle.

The thermal shirt had never been the most flattering choice, something Jordan’s only become all too aware of in recent years. It his twenties it might have made him appear alluringly slim, but _now_ –

Larry squeezes again, humming in amused satisfaction. Jordan finally pulls away just enough to turn around and face him, attempting a glare of reproach but getting the distinct feeling it has little to no effect in the face of a man in full _Sportsmaster_ gear, the hockey mask concealing everything except his manically wide eyes, made all the more distinctive by the facepaint beneath it. His eyes glitter with clear and obvious interest, the intensity of which is enough to make Jordan flush deeper, made worse still when Larry wastes no time in reaching out and grabbing him again. 

“We have a mission–” Jordan starts.

“We have _time_ ,” Larry interrupts casually, pulling Jordan back in. “Brainy’s takin’ care of everyone, isn’t he? What’s the worst a bunch of brats can do?”

A lot, Jordan wants to say, but finds the words unable to come as Larry proceeds to become thoroughly entranced by the slightest evidence of _softness_ around his middle, giggling as he feels around. Jordan was by no means out of shape but he _was_ fast approaching the wrong end of his mid-forties and a close-fitting shirt he’s worn since he was twenty-five did little to hide the fact. Larry tuts when Jordan half-heartedly tries to pull away and reaches up to tug off his mask, grinning encouragingly but the raccoon-eyes exaggerating his already obvious manic expression makes it feel more like a predatory baring of teeth than anything. 

Not that it discourages Jordan in any way, as much as he tries to convince himself otherwise. 

“C’mon, bud,” Larry croons, leaning in. He doesn’t stop feeling up Jordan’s stomach. “One for the road, huh? A little encouragement to keep us going?”

There’s the distinct impression that the plan had become a house of cards in a terrifyingly short amount of time in the back of Jordan’s mind, all possibilities of _winning_ slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Henry taking control changed none of that. Desperation was creeping in. An excuse to _run_ festered quietly in the background. And yet–

“The children…” Jordan tries, but even Larry can tell his heart’s not quite in it.

“Aw, they can wait,” Larry replies, grinning, and closes the gap between them with a hungry kiss.

He wastes no time in shoving a hand under Jordan’s shirt– yet to be tucked in in his haste to get dressed –to feel up the softness directly, causing Jordan to choke on his breath just slightly in startlement. Larry crowds him up against a wall, hands wandering all up and down Jordan’s chest now, who can do nothing but cling ineffectively at the edges of Larry’s armor, no seams to pry apart and dig into, completely at the other’s mercy. Jordan gasps into Larry’s mouth, unable to comprehend anything more than the heat of the body pressed against him and the cloying scent of sweat and leather. What he wants is to return to the mission at hand because what he wants is tantalizingly out of reach, underneath impenetrable layers of armor and leather. Larry’s even aware of this, and Jordan _knows_ because when Larry finally pulls away as Jordan begins grinding against his leg, his grin is wide and sharp, shark-like, head tilted and eyes glittering. 

“More where that came from after we wrap up,” Larry declares with a wink, sliding the mask back on all too casually. “ _Alright_! Now let’s go kill some children, bud!”

After one last squeeze and a giggle, Larry pulls back and exits the locker room as though nothing at all had happened. Jordan’s left breathing heavily, puffs of cooled air with every ragged gasp. It takes a minute for him to recompose himself, brushing his hair back into place and tucking his shirt back in. He gathers his coat. _Encouragement_ , Larry had said. He’s mildly ashamed to find that it’s worked, the vague promise of _continuing_ enough to beat out the shame of his faltering conviction. Maybe that had been the entire point, Henry detecting his doubt even now and sending down his own mocking reminder of who was _really_ in charge now. 

Suffice to say, it regrettably worked. 

Jordan shrugs on the coat. His plan was in its last throes. It was time he saw it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> PRESENTING. HINT OF TUMBY.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green Lantern + ISA - MR. BIG - "When Larry said his biggest enemy was Green Lantern, they didn't think he meant literally..." [Where rest of the ISA are floored at how GIGANTIC he is irl. Except Brainwave. He is jelly he ain't the tallest no more]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is set very very early isa, when it's just henry, larry, and jordan. i know this doesn't quite follow the prompt but i hope it's still okay! if alan seems crazy it's because he is. read fate (1994) and book of fate (1997) for proof :/

_We’re going to die, aren’t we?_

It’s hard not to react at the thought that gets pushed into his head, courtesy of Henry. Impossibly, Jordan manages to keep a straight face throughout it all, even as Larry continues excitedly chattering away as though this were the first time he’s had a captive audience in ages. Though, given Larry’s entire demeanor, maybe just the first time it’s been a _willing_ one. 

They’ve all gathered in Larry’s apartment, for once. The drive from New York City to Gotham had been nothing short of arduous, with Henry’s insistence on the radio being permanently set to NPR, and the frankly indecipherable directions Larry had sent them to navigate the labyrinthian streets of inner-city Gotham. 

All for a heist Larry had _promised_ was going to be well worth it. The city was full of easy marks, he said. Barely anyone around to stop you, he said. Half the time the cops will even _help_ , he said. 

Henry still wasn’t buying it, sat on the sidelines on the edge of a very beat-up couch, arms crossed with a deepening frown, openly projecting his disapproval at having been talked into this every chance he got. Larry, for his part, is completely oblivious, grinning brightly as he eagerly shows off his proudly curated wall of weapons-- by all accounts just a fancy collection of sports equipment. The key difference, however, being Larry’s _showing off_ amounting to pointing out every piece and explaining in graphic detail _exactly_ how he got kicked out of that particular sport for killing or otherwise maiming someone without sparing a single gorey thing. 

Jordan, sure to Henry’s extreme displeasure, is unfortunately _fascinated_ with it all, eyes wide and bright and listening intently, utterly absorbed. He remembers researching Sportsmaster for _weeks_ before finally seeking him out, carefully nurturing the idea of the new ISA all the while in the hopes that he’d finally get a bite. It must mean _something_ that Larry had invited them all the way back to his home turf to share on a score, surly.

_Because he’s going to kill us._

It’s now Jordan finally frowns, turning to face Henry with a stern, “He’s _not_.”

“ _Hah_?” Larry’s looking at him, confused, brows furrowed and head tilted, grin still plastered on but for a second seeming vaguely threatening instead of manically excited.

Jordan startles, scrambling for a distraction and pointing at the first thing he sees, a long-handled wooden mallet with a narrow-tipped head still hanging on the wall. “I-- I mean, what’s that?”

It’s a sufficient enough distraction, apparently. Larry’s eyes light up in an instant when he sees, grinning brightly as he pulls the object down and looks down at it with a dreamy sigh. 

“My _polo_ mallet,” he declares proudly. “I’ll be taking this baby with me, tonight.” 

“ _That_?” Henry scoffs, finally taking a stand and gesturing disbelievingly at the mallet. “What use could that possibly be to us? And since when do you play _polo_?”

“Not since I caved a man’s head in on the field with this ol’ beauty here,” Larry states _much_ too casually, his tone taking on an oddly wistful note as he strokes the head of it. If there’s a threat carried in there, it’s buried deep enough not to be obvious, though the suspicious stains that Jordan notices in the wood of the mallet certainly make Larry’s point well enough known. Henry’s eyes narrow, and Jordan feels a pressure on his temples usually indicative of Henry flexing his powers without strict care of a specific target, but whatever Henry sees is apparent enough not to make him press further. His lips press into a thin line and he relinquishes the point, however reluctantly. Jordan inserts himself more obviously in between the two of them and attempts an encouraging smile.

“Henry, it’s made of _wood_ ,” Jordan points out helpfully, like it’s supposed to explain everything-- because, well, it _is_. It evidently doesn’t. Henry’s frown only deepens and Jordan finds himself struggling for an explanation that didn’t sound completely ridiculous, all the while Larry whistles uncaringly and picks various other wooden implements off the wall in preparation for that night. “Because-- Because. Gotham has a superhero who is… _weak_ to wood.”

Jordan sighs and cringes as soon as he says it, cringing again when Larry chirps “It’s true!” over his shoulder. It does not help his case in the slightest. Henry sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though staving off a fast-rising headache. “Okay,” he says. “ _Okay_. Fine. Do we even have a plan to deal with him if he shows up?”

“Don’t get your snuggie in a twist, Brainy,” Larry says brightly, laughing as he hefts a cricket bat of all things onto his shoulder and wrangles Jordan in close with an arm thrown around his. “Of _course_ we have a plan! Classic smash and grab! We get in and get out before the Big Guy ever knows what’s up!” 

Wrong answer, apparently, as evidenced by Henry running a hand down his face in exasperation and groaning, with an added little _oh, so we_ ** _are_** _going to die_ projected mentally for Jordan’s benefit. Jordan smiles rather terribly. Larry seems to take it all as signs of encouragement. 

“Alright then, bud, alright!” Larry lets out with a whoop, and plants a sloppy wet kiss on Jordan’s cheek with an audible _smack_ ; subsequently, the temperature of the room drops ten degrees in an instant. Nobody seems to notice. “It’s _game time_ , baby!”

\---

Heists in Gotham apparently don’t amount to much. Larry’s big score turns out to be a slightly upscale jewelry store right on the edge of the Diamond District. Henry’s car is stashed in a nearby alleyway in case of a quick getaway after several earnest promises (by Jordan) that it won’t get stolen and easy assurances (by Larry) that the job will be quick enough that they’ll be back before that even happens. 

“Is it always this easy in Gotham?” Jordan asks, having dutifully frozen solid all the alarms and cameras to allow for Larry to go to town on the window with his bat and an excited hyena-like cackle; Henry stands watch, having been designated as the lookout due to his adamant refusal to partake in any actual _smashing_ until it came time for the _grabbing_ , though Jordan can sense him rolling his eyes even while turned away. 

“Sure is!” Larry replies, vaulting through the destroyed window and wasting no time in driving his fist through the nearest glass display case and grabbing a fistful of jeweled necklaces, stuffing them in his pack and immediately moving on to the next one. “Do you know how many other places are being robbed at this exact moment? They can’t catch all of us!”

Jordan makes a face, but nonetheless climbs in and joins Larry in gathering as many priceless jewels as he could get his hands on; Henry lingers just outside, watching them with shrewd disapproval until his face screws up in confusion, nose wrinkling. 

“Is something… _burning_?”

That’s enough to give Jordan pause, halfway through driving an ice spike into a safe. The entire store had been dusted with a coating of frost, logically nothing should be getting hot enough to even make a _spark_. Sure enough, he smells it too-- that unmistakable scent of something on fire, intermixed with the distinct smell of ozone. That couldn’t be right--

Jordan has just enough time to hear Larry’s little _ruh-oh_ before the wall to the side of them suddenly erupts in stunningly bright, green flames. Henry swears aloud, and Jordan feels inclined to join him when the flames unfurl to reveal an outright _giant_ of a man, eyes alight in burning fury and nearly outright snarling at the lot of them. Green Lantern, Jordan knows immediately, remembers him from [his first meeting with Larry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185216/chapters/65602849), but seeing someone in flight is leagues different from seeing it right in front of you, a brick wall of a man emerging like a demon from Hell. Jordan feels himself sweating, actually _sweating_ \-- or was he melting? All he knows is that this man is terrifyingly _huge_ , and Larry seemed the only one utterly unconcerned by it. 

“ _Greenie_!” Larry greets enthusiastically, arms spread wide as though expecting a hug, and though his mask hides his face Jordan can hear his exuberant and manic grin loud and clear though his voice. “Where ya been, huh? How’s it going?”

“ _I’LL SEE YOU IN HELL_!” comes the roared reply, a shot of flaming green energy launched in his direction, swiftly deflected with a swing of Larry’s bat and an excited laugh.

“Aww, I missed you too!”

Jordan finds himself slowly backing away as Larry barks out another laugh and launches himself, bat swinging, at Green Lantern with seemingly little care to himself or others, and even _less_ care to just how much Green Lantern seems to dwarf all of them combined. 

“ _That’s_ Green Lantern?” Henry hisses through clenched teeth when Jordan returns to his side. “That’s Green Lantern, and we let Larry bring a _polo mallet_ and a _baseball bat_?”

“He’s weak to wood!”

A plume of emerald flame explodes out the store window, ejecting an airborne Larry along with it, signed Sportsmaster mask and all. He skids and rolls along the street until he comes to a stop and jumps up, wild-eyed.

“Start the car!” He shouts, then unsheathes the mallet and dives right back in without hesitation. Another roar is heard and the foundation quakes faintly beneath their feet. Jordan wilts just slightly. Henry turns with an annoyed _hmph_ and Jordan finds himself trailing after, not quite trusting his powers in the face of the broiling heat inside.

“ _That’s_ Green Lantern,” Henry repeats, seemingly to himself, scoffing. “Good lord. Even his presence gives me a headache. And he’s _taller_ than me. Remind me never to set foot in Gotham again.”

Jordan, despite everything, finds himself agreeing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Polycule prompt!: angry/frustrated Jordan (maybe fresh off the heels of nu!JSA win) with a friendlier top!Larry? Jordan kinda enjoying the touch/affection but staying colder (lol) than usual throughout? Crusher feels some kind of way about this- author’s choice if it’s amused, confused, weirded out, etc!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set a few months after [this fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185216/chapters/65004010)
> 
> okay so. barely what the prompt asked for but I tried my best. hope this is still enjoyable!

It’s late, and Larry is running.

Recovering from their sound defeat at the hands of the JSA Jr. hadn’t been an easy one. Well-- okay, for himself and Paula, it _had_ been easy. They had no stakes in the matter, compared to the others, for them it really _was_ as easy as rounding up Artemis and skipping town on “vacation” until the heat blew over and they could regain relative normalcy. It wasn’t like any of the brats knew his identity-- sure, Stripesy and his little snot did, but without any proof it was their word against his, and as far as the rest of the podunk town of Blue Valley was concerned he was an _upstanding_ member of their fitness community. 

But. It couldn’t hurt to lay low for a little longer. With the ISA down and out, the ol’ lizard man six feet under, and Jordan who knows where, Larry was well aware that attracting any kind of attention was what Paula might call _a bad thing_. No Sportsmaster, no Tigress, no merc jobs and definitely _no_ busting heads of any kind. _For Artemis_ , Larry had to remind himself. No use needlessly uprooting her life for her parents’ mistakes when there were _college scholarships_ on the line. 

So, the late night running. Larry had energy to burn and running through the woodlands of Blue Valley was _slightly_ less insanely suspicious than working out alone in Ripped City in the middle of the night. It at least had the benefit of a built-in obstacle course as well as ensuring he remained relatively unseen throughout. 

It’s usually pretty uneventful. _Usually_.

Larry’s jogging through the woods on the far side of town, making a loop around the city limits, when he seems to cross some imaginary line and feels the temperature drop in an instant. It’s enough to give him pause, given how even early spring in Nebraska didn’t usually make a habit of plummeting _thirty degrees_ in a span of a few seconds.

That tended to mean one thing, in Larry’s experience. Or, rather, one _person_. 

He picks his way carefully through the frost-covered grass and underbrush, and a peak through the trees reveals he’s right where he suspected-- Jordan’s fancifully ugly little McMansion estate, standing tall and proud despite everything, with the _lights_ on, no less. Jordan’s parents had apparently taken the same route as Larry and Paula had, choosing to dig their heels in and weather it out rather than running. Good for the kid, at least. He seemed the sensitive type. Just like his old man. 

Speaking of old men…

Larry finds him not too long after, leaning heavily against a tree, haggardly dressed and staring despondently across the expanse of his lawn into a single dark window on the second floor. That coat of his is long gone, leaving behind dirtied pants and a thermal shirt in tatters, months of growth covering his face in a ragged beard. It’s distantly fascinating in its own way, and Larry can’t help the impressed whistle he lets out at the sight; the last he saw Jordan, he seemed-- _mostly_ put together then. As well as a man who’d just been shattered to literal pieces and reconstituted in a basement freezer could be, at any rate. 

The noise startles Jordan out of his reverie, who turns around with a wild-eyed look and a wounded sort-of growl, hands up and ice crackling weakly between his fingers-- he’s all flesh, save for a streak of ice that stretches from his hairline through his left eye and down his face, an ugly frozen scar that stands out in the low light and contributes to Jordan’s already unhinged appearance. 

“Woah!” Larry says, backing off immediately with his own hands up in surrender. He grins in spite of everything, wide and toothy and excited, and it’s only then he sees the recognition spark in Jordan’s eyes, deeply shadowed by weapons-grade exhaustion. “Woah, just me, bud! You remember your ol’ pal Crusher, don’t you?” 

Jordan hesitates, eyes narrowing, but ultimately lets his hands lower with a small huff. He looked downright _haggard_ \-- torn shirt, ripped pants, dirtied boots and a shabby beard, grayed around the edges. Homeless to the Nth degree. Larry almost wants to laugh at the sight of it all, absurd as it is, the once-proud leader of the ISA reduced to shambling through the woods like some kind of hermit. The scar was a nice touch, at least-- Larry had been willing enough to write it off as Jordan still recovering from his shattering. Evidently, the whole event had been more traumatizing than either of them had expected. 

“Crusher. What are you doing here?” Jordan says roughly, suspicious yet full of hope and relief all the same.

“Bud, what are _you_ doing here?” Larry shoots back with a laugh, and finds the courage to finally close the distance between them and clap Jordan on the shoulders; Jordan falters just slightly, boney and thin under Larry’s hands. Boy, the past few months had _not_ been kind to him. “I thought you’d be home by now! What are you doing out here? Bringing the abominable snowman back to Blue Valley?”

Jordan’s face screws up in confusion even as he leans into the touch, clearly more wore-out than he was letting on. “I… I couldn’t leave Cameron, but-- I can’t go back. Not Yet. He can’t see me like--” His expression crumples, lip quivering, as he gestures to the scar. “Like _this_. It would hurt him.”

Personally, Larry found the scar rather enticing. It gave Jordan a much needed edge that was lost when he had chosen to dress primarily in his bespoke suits and fine leather shoes. He draws himself closer, cupping Jordan’s face in his hands and gently brushing a thumb over the length of the scar. Jordan swallows thickly, but allows it, eyes wet and wide. Jordan is _hurting_ , Larry knows that much, but his repertoire is rather limited when it comes to the proper ways of _helping_. To say he _missed_ Jordan would be-- overstating it, probably, but he certainly well enough missed having him around. It’s hard not to fall back into old habits, and Larry leans in automatically, mouth parted, lips brushing Jordan’s--

And nothing more than that.

Jordan remains frozen in place, unreactive. When Larry pulls back, brows drawing together, he sees Jordan blank-faced, eyes glazed over even as he continues to lean into the warm touch of his hand. The only reaction he gets is when Jordan hisses and flinches just slightly, the steady gentle rubbing of Larry’s thumb against the iced-over scar melting it away to reveal raw and angry still-healing flesh underneath. Jordan, in spite of this, doesn’t pull away. Larry frowns. 

It would be _easy_ to-- push ahead anyways, he thinks. It wasn’t a matter of Jordan resisting rather than Jordan being too tied up in his own grief to react at all, homesick and out of it, crushed physically and mentally by defeat. It would be easy… but _wrong_. Larry’s frown deepens. Jordan’s usual method of comfort wasn’t needed here, anyways. What he needed was _real_ care.

_That_ , Larry could do.

“C’mon, bud,” Larry sighs, giving a quick and chaste kiss to Jordan’s forehead, right on the edge of the scar, and throws an arm over his shoulder, beginning to lead him back to his place. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? If you think that gnarly scar is a bad look, what d’ya think he’ll think of how you’re dressed, huh? We’ll have you fresh as a daisy and back on your feet in no time!”

Jordan’s feet drag and stumble, and he casts one last longing look over his shoulder towards his home, but he sticks close to Larry’s side nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for homeless reference  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brainwave/Icicle - THE SMALL THINGS - "Henry realizes the power he has over Jordan, and tests his limits." [aka pushing Jordan's buttons on that perfect lil suit, could be mindplay, being handsy, subtle body movements to see what makes him tick, meeting takeover, giving him lewks]

_Project: New America_ has been delayed. Again. Jordan delivers the news with all the mournful gravity of a funeral director, presiding over the ISA meeting as though it _pains_ him to announce it. Head bowed, hands folded, flagrantly displaying his regret and disappointment for all the room to see. 

It’s pathetic, really. Henry watches with clear disinterest as Jordan continues to offer apology after empty apology. Dr. Ito’s machine had hit another snag, he says. Glitches in the system. Unexpected complications. It may take days, weeks, _months_ to overcome. A collective sigh is heard all around, some more obvious than others. All Jordan can offer is a tight, apologetic smile. One might almost say he looked _relieved_. 

He’s stalling.

Henry doesn’t have to be a psychic to see it. Sitting directly across from where Jordan stands, elbow resting on the table, chin propped up on a closed fist, it doesn’t even take a _genius_. Jordan transitions from his saddened announcement about the mission to updates about his small town revitalization project with suspicious ease, dismayed to upbeat in seconds. His _real_ passion by miles, disguised as it is by his duty to Dr. Ito’s machine. Henry’s bored of all the pretending. Jordan might have had all the others fooled-- content enough with their current positions to continue to be willingly strung along for as long as Jordan needed. Where was the rush, after all, with the JSA dead and defeated? They had the time.

What Henry did not have was the patience. 

Time and time again, Jordan had _promised_. Time and time again, they fell through. The closer it got to the completion of the project, the more Jordan dragged his feet, the quicker he was to announce delays. 

Logically, Henry _knew_ it was bound to be complete eventually. There was only so long Jordan could wring his hands and stretch out the inevitable. Sooner or later, Henry would stop allowing it. 

But. For now, he was just as content as everyone else, if a little bored of the constant charades. All he needed was to ensure his patience wouldn’t wear quite so thin just yet. A small matter of revenge to get back at Jordan for being too much of a coward to even admit he wanted out.

Henry’s eyes drift. The rest of the gathered members are as disinterested in Jordan’s droning as he is. Paula and Larry are leaning in on each other, whispering into the others ear every so often and snickering. Steven was certainly _playing_ at listening, but Henry could see his phone hidden just underneath the table, unable to let his stocks rest for even a second. Anaya was scrawling quickly into a folder, appearing for all the world to be taking notes when she was really far more concerned with detailing her son’s weekly schedule. William was the only one even _moderately_ paying attention, and even then Henry could still sense his mind losing focus. 

It was sufficient. Henry slides his gaze back over to Jordan. It was time to make this meeting a little more _worthwhile_. 

It takes some careful maneuvering to ensure Jordan doesn’t feel the press of his powers. He starts small. A slow, light, deliberate tracing touch along Jordan’s spine with a sliver of his telekinesis. Teasing. The effect is immediate. Jordan stiffens, stumbling over his words as his back suddenly goes ramrod straight in startlement. He seems to recover easily enough, at least, collecting himself and moving on before anyone could notice his hiccup, as though it had never happened. He can do better than that, Henry thinks. 

The second touch is more obvious, phantom hands smoothing down the length of Jordan’s chest and up again. Jordan freezes, eyes going wide before they latch directly onto Henry, clearly aiming for a chastising glare, but in the face of Henry’s own stone-faced indifference, barely manages more than panicked surprise. Impressively, he bravely insists on pressing on, unwilling to cede ground in the middle of a meeting. Henry almost wants to smile at the tenacity. 

He directs the touch down, swiping across Jordan’s nipples with a slow, sliding caress before centering on his thighs. Henry imagines his own hands gripping them, an ever-present pressure, and just as slowly sliding them up. Jordan fights off a shudder, gritting his teeth against the sensation, stubbornly refusing to give in just yet. The others remain none the wiser, so caught up in their own boredom that they could hardly care about Jordan stuttering over a few words here and there. It’s when Jordan’s breath catches, however, a small half-gasp when that phantom touch comes precariously close to far more sensitive areas, that Larry suddenly perks. Blood in the water, a hound on the scent. A wide, predatory grin spreads across his face, shark-like, as he glances knowingly over at Henry and leans in to whisper into Paula’s ear. Paula smirks, and elects to watch the show unfold.

It’s all the encouragement Henry needs. He allows his touches to grow bolder. Impressions of a kiss along Jordan’s neck, light and chaste, crawling up the column of his throat in pace with the hands trailing up and inside his thighs. Jordan leans into it despite his best efforts to resist, inclining his head out of instinct and shuddering out a sigh, puffs of supercooled air escaping his lips and a touch of frost beginning to gather at his cheeks.

And yet, he persists with the meeting. Henry has to admire his tenacity, if nothing else. Abruptly tired of toying around, he barrels on, palming Jordan through his pants in his mind’s eye, teasingly light. It’s here Jordan finally chokes on his words, staggering to lean heavily on the ISA table. Ice crystals spider-web out from where his hands meet the wood, white-knuckled with the effort of reigning himself in. 

“You don’t look so _hot_ , Jordan,” Paula announces flatly while Larry sniggers into her shoulder, a hair under condescending. The phantom hand’s touch grows more insistent, deliberate, slowly stroking Jordan from root to tip. Jordan gasps at it, biting back a groan. “Are you feeling very well?”

Finally provided a distraction, all eyes were now on Jordan. Henry sat impassively by. Other than the resident gym rats, the rest of ISA seemed as equally uninterested in whatever ailment seemed to have suddenly struck the leader as they had during the meeting; only William showed even the slightest modicum of concern. 

“Do you-- do you need to go to the hospital…?” William asks tentatively, only to be hurriedly waved off by Jordan.

“No! I mean-- _no_. No, I’m fine,” Jordan insists, voice tight. He attempts a smile, and a rather horrible one at that, only to double over again when Henry lets his telekinetic grip tighten around his cock. “I just-- need a minute. We can, um, continue this next time. Meeting adjourned. Everyone can go.” Jordan swallows thickly, locks eyes with Henry. Ice is fast creeping past the neckline of his suit. “Except-- _Henry_. I could use his help.”

“ _Oh_ , I bet you _could_ ,” Larry offers as a final parting shot with a laugh and a wink, arm slung over Paula’s shoulders as he follows the rest of the team filing out, only all too eager to escape whether they knew what was going on or not. 

All that left was Jordan and Henry, alone. 

Henry, who still stares Jordan down impassively across the table, imagining _dozens_ of hands now roaming up and down Jordan’s body, touching him, _caressing_ him--

“H-Henry...” Jordan gasps out, knees quivering, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. It could have almost been a plea, not that Henry was particularly listening. He continues the slow deliberate stroking of Jordan’s cock in his mind. “During a _meeting_ …”

Henry simply shrugs. “Call it a stroke of fancy,” he says. Doesn’t offer any sort of apology. 

“At least touch me, for _real_ , please…”

Henry considers it, or at least pretends to. “Next time,” he decides, a glint in his eyes. He stands, and all at once every single phantom hand recedes. Jordan whines against the sudden loss of feeling, hips jerking against nothing. “Consider it another it another one of your rather _unfortunate_ delays.”

At that, Henry turns and leaves Jordan to his own devices. 

He didn’t appreciate being played with.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "PROMPT: CRUSHER TELLS JORDAN U KNOW HWAT ISNT NORMAL. :)"
> 
> "Fic Prompt: *cough* Larry tries to introduce roman style bonding to ISA"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was an admittedly weak attempt at combining both prompts but I had to try anyways, hope it's still okay!

The newly-minted ISA is… struggling, to say the least. One would think that being composed of only three people, one of whom being _psychic_ , that teamwork would come easy. 

One would _think_.

The bank robbery is a veritable disaster, even more so than their sorry attempt at a jewelry store heist weeks earlier. Larry ignored Jordan’s suggestion to proceed _carefully_ , instead choosing to kick in the doors with a rebel yell and bat swinging to cave in the face of the first security guard he saw. Evidently no longer seeing any sense in following any semblance of a plan, Henry followed suit almost immediately after despite Jordan’s furiously hissed protests, having dropped everyone to their knees with his powers by the time Jordan finally saw fit to swallow his pride and trail after them, ice spreading and cracking across his skin.

Now, it _might_ have been successful even then-- Henry had the forethought to paralyze all the tellers before they could press the panic buttons, and incapacitate the rest of the security guards before they could draw their weapons --until Henry then managed to get distracted by a singular man’s supposedly _unforgivingly wicked_ thoughts, lowering his concentration just enough to allow for a single guard to…

Needless to say, the fact that they barely managed to escape without getting arrested was a miracle in itself. Pure _luck_ , even, that escaped with anything at all-- a measly couple hundred dollars that Larry had wrenched from a single till, unable to make it as far as the vault.

It’s why Jordan now finds himself holed back up in his tiny room that Henry had allowed him in their already tiny apartment. He’s nursing a headache, though whether it’s from the stress of the situation or Henry’s personal revenge for getting shot at is hard to tell. He just-- wants this to _work_ , he wants the ISA to be everything he dreamed of, but it’s hard to organize anything when one member is a _literal_ know-it-all and the other is a hot-headed adrenaline junkie.

Jordan groans and sets about the arduous effort of disrobing out of his costume-- his _uniform_ \--and into moderately more comfortable clothes so that he can wallow in his self-pity in peace.

“Hiya, bud!” Larry’s extraordinarily chipper voice jars Jordan from his reverie. He startles just slightly, not expecting Larry to have still been around; he’d been _extremely_ vocal about Henry claiming the lion’s share of their meager loot in recompense for the bullet holes in his Brainwave uniform, just short of storming out of the ISA entirely. Larry smiles disarmingly, all teeth. Jordan smiles very weakly back, awkward with his coat halfway down his back but arms still caught in the sleeves. Against his better judgment, he tries to wave, only to stop and blush when the action fails due to the previously mentioned sleeves. 

“La-- _Crusher_ ,” Jordan greets, only somewhat wary. Larry’s still grinning back at him. Jordan decides to distract himself by going on with his undressing. “Um. What can I do for you?”

Larry doesn’t respond right away, seemingly content to watch Jordan struggle with the complexities of coat sleeves with mild amusement until he chuckles. “Boy, we sure blew it today, huh?”

Jordan grimaces, finally freeing himself from his jacket and throwing it on his bed. “I wouldn’t say _that_ …”

“Nah, nah, we did,” Larry blusters on, waving Jordan off. “We gotta work on our teamwork! I know you’re worried about Brainy being a team player--” and here he ignores Jordan’s panicked _I’m not!_ “--but listen! I have the _perfect_ solution. _Great_ idea for a bonding activity. See, the Romans--”

And it’s here Jordan rolls his eyes, ignoring the rest of Larry’s rambling so that he can finish undressing and pack it away until next time. Larry had a tendency to go off on tangents, excitability getting the best of him. Jordan only half-listens, turning away to give himself the illusion of privacy while he takes off his shirt.

“--and then they strengthen those bonds by _fucking_ each other--”

Jordan jumps with a yelp, whipping around just in time to see Larry casually making a crude gesture with his fingers, the pointer finger of one hand being moved in and out of a circle formed by the thumb and pointer finger of the other hand. Jordan feels himself blush and his cheeks just as quickly frost over as he blurts out a scandalized, “ _Larry_!”

“Look, I’m just _saying_ \-- hah?” Larry says, looking up and trailing off, eyes latching onto Jordan’s shirtless torso in an instant and widening. Jordan abruptly feels exposed and fights the urge to cover himself despite still wearing pants. It’s a feeling not at all helped when Larry suddenly laughs, eyebrows shooting up. “Wow, bud, that’s _not_ normal.”

It’s enough to give Jordan pause, looking down at himself and back at Larry in quick succession, frowning and confused. “I-- I don’t--” Jordan’s frown deepens, defensive. “ _What’s_ not normal?”

“ _That_!” Larry leaps forward with another laugh closing the distance between them so rapidly that Jordan has barely any time to react before he finds Larry tracing the almost perfectly straight line of hair trailing up from his navel to his chest. Frost and ice gather rapidly at Jordan’s cheeks as his blush intensifies. 

“Chest hair?” Jordan offers weakly, almost literally frozen in place as a result of being so intently at the end of Larry’s single-minded attention. “It’s just-- Crusher, I don’t understand, it’s _just_ chest hair--”

“Who’s happy trail just _does_ that?” Larry interrupts, grinning wide. “It’s like a straight line all the way up and down!”

“Okay, I _know_ \--” Jordan tries, chagrined. “Look, it is normal, for me--”

Larry spreads his palm flat, whistling as he apparently continues to admire Jordan’s so-called freak-of-nature chest hair. That finally ends up being too much for Jordan’s runaway embarrassment, freezing all over in an instant and cementing Larry’s hand against him. Larry doesn’t even blink, unperturbed, and only whistles appreciatively again before just as casually wrenching his hand free. 

“Wow!” Larry says again, evidently oblivious to Jordan’s awkwardness as he casually shakes the cold and ice off his hand. “So, anyways.” He flashes another smile. Jordan feels his heart flutter a little. “About my bonding idea? Could _really_ do the ISA some good, I think.” Larry winks. “Might finally even get that stick out of Brainy’s ass, too.”

“I’ll--” Jordan clears his throat, voice just a little rough as he hurriedly pulls on a fresh shirt before Larry could be tempted to reach out again. The ice refuses to melt away. “I’ll, um, think about it?”

“Hell yeah!” Larry barks enthusiastically, pumping a fist in the air as he finally turns to leave. “Alright then, bud, alright! Hey, I’ll see you around!”

Jordan sighs, deflating just a little at the puff of cold air that escapes with it. 

The ISA was going to take more work than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> proof of neil jackson's horrible horrible chest hair  
> 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brainwave/Icicle - CRUMBS - "Just when Jordan thinks that he's finally going to break their co-dependency, Henry does something to bring him back." [Every man has a limit, and Jordan can only stand Henry's withholding for so long. You know the drill: Hurt us with the beauty of your writing 🧠🧊

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the beauty of my writing... thank you so much anon i really hope this one doesn't disappoint lmao

The humiliation still stings. 

The confrontation in his office had only been the beginning. The threats, both said and unsaid, the direct challenge to his authority, the look in Henry’s eyes that _dared_ him to refuse, haughty and arrogant. He knew about Jordan’s attachment to Courtney Whitmore’s mother, knew how obviously he’d been dragging his feet to prevent the plan from coming to completion-- the plan that wasn’t really _his_ plan any more than it was a gradually tightening noose of an obligation around his neck, a promise made to a long-dead wife and an overly-idealistic dream of a new tomorrow. 

Was it _ever_ really his plan? Jordan can no longer recall. It’d become corrupted, somewhere along the line, and now it was too late to turn back. 

Much, much too late.

At the meeting comes his breaking point. Henry throws away all pretense of simply challenging his authority and decides to outright take it for himself. He takes the stage, smiling, utterly secure in his position, smug as Jordan files in last and takes his seat shamefully.

_I grew tired of waiting_ , Henry declares aloud, smirking. Jordan keeps his head down. Henry’s words ring just as loudly inside his mind, impossible to tune out. _I stand here today because our leader has_ ** _failed_** _you. We are hereby moving forward with the project, effective immediately. Everything changes tonight._

This is the end, Jordan thinks. This really is the end. He doesn’t care if Henry hears his thoughts. 

In the halls outside the meeting room, dark and damp and alone, Jordan lingers. He thinks to run. The others have left, gone off to prepare for the final culmination of a mission decades in the making. Henry’s left behind in the lair. Jordan’s alone. 

He thinks to run. 

(Barbara and Courtney die either way, and it’s not so much as the coward’s way out as the simple acceptance of knowing he can’t defeat Henry. It’s clear to Jordan now he was only ever in charge because Henry _allowed_ it. It’s a devastating blow to his pride.)

Jordan lingers. He can’t-- he _can’t_ leave, just yet. It’s the thought of Henry labeling him a coward that makes him hesitate. He strives for his approval, even now. The burning shame from Henry so easily seizing control eats away at him from the inside, twisting his stomach into knots. He has one last chance, he thinks, to _fix_ this. One last opportunity to get back on Henry’s good side. 

It’s hard not to feel like he’s come crawling back to Henry as he descends back down the stairs. It’s not helped by the fact Henry’s standing _exactly_ where he last saw him, as though waiting for him. Jordan wouldn’t be surprised if he was. 

Jordan stops some distance away, and Henry merely looks at him and tilts his head inquiringly. He knows what Henry wants but-- Jordan can’t say it. His throat works but the words refuse to come. 

No matter. Henry takes it upon himself to go directly to the source, rifling uncaringly through Jordan’s thoughts until he finds the answer he needs. It’s never a sensation he can get used to, and Jordan has to fight a shiver, jaw setting.

_Kill Barbara and the girl,_ Jordan projects simply, and hopes it’s enough to give Henry no further reason to delve further, to glimpse at his traitorous thoughts of abandoning everything and running away. That’s all Henry wanted, surely, he can leave now, leave all this behind, leave _Henry_ who’d surely stopped caring for him years ago--

And then Henry _smiles_.

Jordan feels his heart stutter to a stop for now discernable reason before just as suddenly taking off like a jackhammer when Henry begins to approach him. He bows his head shamefully, sure he’d been caught. 

“I’m glad you made the right decision,” Henry croons gently, that gentle smirk never quite leaving, but the approval in his tone keeps Jordan rooted to the spot, desperate for praise like he’s never been before. “We’ll take care of them,” he continues, assuring. _Kind_. Like he’s doing a favor in promising Jordan himself didn’t have to get his hands dirty. “Stargirl, her sidekick… and her _mother_.”

Jordan swallows hard. He’s _terrified_ , and yet-- something in Henry’s voice, his smile, keeps him there. A smile Jordan can’t remember the last time he’s seen so genuine, solely directed at him. He’d do anything to keep it that way. 

“The boy, too,” he croaks. A gambit, is what it is. “Mike. We can’t leave a legacy running around.” 

“Of course,” Henry says, and smiles again. It’s embarrassing that _that’s_ enough for Jordan, that pathetic need for approval. He steps closer to Jordan, and raises a single gloved hand to slowly caress at his jaw. “Of _course_. I knew you would come around, Jordan. Very good.”

Jordan shudders out a breath, a puff of cold air accompanying it, horrifyingly incriminating. Something glints in Henry’s eyes at the sight of it, and now Jordan knows for sure there is no turning back. Henry crowds him back until he hits the meeting table, hands settling at his hips.

“Very _good_ ,” Henry says again, low and _much_ too gentle, appraising in just the right way to get that shame already burning inside him nice and hot, frost beginning to crawl along his cheeks in paradoxical evidence of it. Jordan shudders again and bares his neck without thinking-- no longer strictly metaphorical. Henry takes the invitation for what it it and noses along the column of the rapidly chilling skin of his throat, lips barely brushing against it in an almost-kiss. 

_You deserve to be rewarded, don’t you?_

It’s kinder than the last time, but no less uncomfortable; goosebumps break out along Jordan’s skin and he gasps when Henry finally quits being coy and kisses him-- actually _kisses_ him --just under his jaw. Henry _never_ kisses him, he never--

“I-- I just wanted what’s best,” Jordan says shakily, grasping tightly to the leather of Henry’s Brainwave uniform to steady himself. “For the plan. For _us_.”

_And you did so well._ Henry nudges at his chin until Jordan is forced to face him. _You made the right choice. I’m proud._

Jordan gives a watery smile, and Henry leans forward to kiss him again. Jordan accepts it hungrily, clutching at Henry like he’s afraid it’s all just an illusion, like none of it’s _real_ and he’s afraid of it evaporating into nothingness at any second. Henry never kissed him like this, never got so _close_ to him like this, even during all the times they-- it feels unreal, all of it, and Jordan decides he would do absolutely anything to keep it.

Henry endures the endless litanies of _please please please_ that stream forth from Jordan’s mind with surprising grace, indulging his pathetic little desires if only for a moment-- a hand to grind against when the fervor of kissing finally gets to Jordan, caressing him, touching him with such uncommon gentleness that Jordan whines with the sensation of it all.

_You’re going to keep being good for me,_ Henry declares. _Until the plan--_ ** _our_** _plan --is completed._

“Y-yes…”

_And at the end, you shall be rewarded again._

Henry pulls away, abrupt and leaving no room for complaints. He looks deceptively put together still, despite Jordan’s feelings of appearing thoroughly debauchered, tie askew and hair a mess, the hard line of his cock clearly visible against the front of his pants. He wants to plead, to _beg_ , but knows Henry won’t have it. Instead he stands straight, fixing his jacket, and nods stiffly.

Henry simply smiles again, assured, and walks out.

Jordan is left alone, staring at the countdown clock. It does little to assuage his dread.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Prompt: As much as I love seeing good ole Crusher giving it to anyone and everyone, would love to see a fic where someone rides him, making that other person work for it. Would love it being Jordan or Henry, Jordan because he would be so embarrassed and Henry would just be so angry for enjoying it so much <\-- also, he can finally be on "top" by still being the bottom.

“La-- _Crusher_.” Jordan frowns and chews at the inside of his cheek. He fidgets where he sits, unable to get comfortable. Leaning too far back risks feeling-- something he’s not completely sure he’s ready for just yet. “Do we-- do we _have_ to do it like this?” 

Larry’s flat on his back, in _Jordan’s_ bed, sort of lending to the general air of vague unsettled sensation on Jordan’s part even as Larry grins up at him. Jordan can see himself clearly in his mirrored headboard, perched where he’s straddling Larry’s hips, wearing only a thin button-up just long enough to cover him. For now, at least. The way Larry’s caressing his broad, warm hands up and down his thighs are likely to change that in due time. 

He already feels exposed, like this. It’s exciting as it is unexpectedly daunting. Jordan’s reflection stares back at him and Jordan grimaces before looking back down at Larry. “Can’t we-- like normal?”

As per usual, Larry’s only reply is an amused chuckle, those hands of his brushing further and further up his thighs; Jordan fights back a shiver as his skin erupts in goosebumps, his next breath coming out in a puff of super-chilled air. “C’mon, Icy. What’s wrong with trying somethin’ a little different?”

It’s hard not to fidget again with the intensity of Larry’s eyes on him, bright blue and very nearly unnerving. Jordan catches his own eyes in the mirror again and flushes before he can help it, ultimately deciding Larry’s nigh-overwhelming manic energy was infinitely preferable to the immediate proof of his own pathetic image. “It’s not that I _mind_ different, exactly,” Jordan tries gently in defense, breath hitching just slightly as Larry’s hands continue to move, fingertips dipping under the loose hem of his shirt. “It’s just-- well. I like being… _under_ you, and--”

That only serves to make Larry laugh again, a sharp bark that practically bursts out of him, like he’s just seen some animal do a particularly funny trick. “Aww,” he coos, like Jordan’s just _adorable_. “You like that? I like that too.” Here, he pouts. Actually _pouts_. “But-- that last job I took really killed my back, y’know? I really gotta take it easy until it gets better, doc’s orders. You don’t want me to overexert myself and get hurt even _more_ , do you?”

Jordan finds Larry’s reasoning _dubious_ , at best, given how he knows this so-called bad back did little to prevent the manhandling it took to manuever Jordan into this position-- from kissing him within an inch of his life against the wall (as the steadily darkening hickies which now litter his neck can attest) to outright carrying Jordan to the bed and rolling him on top. Jordan attempts a face to convey said exact doubts, but it only serves to cause Larry’s pout to deepen as he abandons all pretence and slides his hands up to grab Jordan’s ass fully.

“ _Okay_ ,” Jordan finally grants, swallowing back a gasp when the movement is accompanied by an teasing roll of Larry’s hips, the hard bulge of his cock clearly felt through his pants when Jordan is forced to lean back to keep his balance. He shudders and feels ice beginning to crack open across his cheeks, fighting the urge to grind back against it. He’s not quite so pathetically needy _yet_. “Okay, okay, fine. This is-- fine, too.”

“Hell _yeah_ , bud,” Larry grins, looking far too much like that cat who’d gotten the canary. “Now, lemme see you _work_ it.”

\---

The mirrored headboard makes Jordan feel as though he’s flagrantly on display, over-exposed and too-vulnerable as he rocks with needy desperation onto Larry’s cock. The whole reason Larry had wanted to come _here_ , Jordan hazily considers, but the thought it gone just as quickly when Larry grips his thighs and thrusts up into him, a long and deep hiss of pleasure accompanying it. Jordan merely whines and bows his head, screwing his eyes shut to avoid even the risk of catching sight of himself; he’d gone completely frozen at some point in the meantime, gleaming crystalizing ice showing through the now-open shirt that was currently halfway to slipping off his shoulders. The pure heat of Larry is the only thing keeping him from freezing solid entirely, though Jordan is well-aware there’s not much else preventing that.

“C’mon, bud, you really should see how _gorgeous_ you look,” Larry soothes through an appreciative groan, one hand wrapping lightly around Jordan’s cock, thumb brushing along and tracing around the leaking head, while the other reaches to caress at Jordan’s jawline. “Why don’t you open those pretty little eyes for me?”

Because Larry never tires of that damned _mirror_ , because Jordan never thinks to get rid of it despite the mortification he always feels in the moment. He _knows_ what Larry is trying to get at, and whimpers at the thought, bowing further with his hands braced against Larry’s chest in some feeble attempt at weaseling out of it. It does little help, in the grand scheme of things, because Larry merely tuts and gives a small, disappointed hum, the roll of his hips becoming nothing more than a slow, tortuous rocking.

“Now, don’t be like that, Icy,” he says, frowning; Jordan has to bite back another desperate-sounding whine as Larry strokes him just as deliberately slow, even as his thighs burn with the renewed effort of fucking himself on Larry’s cock in the absence of any real movement on his end. “Pretty please? For your ol’ pal Crusher?”

Jordan _wants_ to imagine Larry blinking up at him innocently, pouting and doing his best impression of a puppy dog stare-- and as it turns out, he doesn’t have to. His eyes crack open against his best judgment, and it’s _exactly_ what he sees staring back at him. A wide and shark-like grin spreads across Larry’s face when he rewards Jordan with a hard thrust and earns a particularly beautiful punched-out moan for his efforts. 

And-- Jordan sees himself, in that mirror, and what an immediately mortifying sight he sees. 

He’s flushed with frost from head to toe, shirt fallen open, mouth agape and every panting gape releasing a cloud of chilled air, eyes hazy and unfocused, clutching and grasping desperately at Larry’s chest for the leverage in search of that perfect angle at which to rock back onto his cock. It’s degrading, he’s _Icicle_ \-- the feared leader of the ISA, reduced to nearly nothing more than a needy whore at the hands of his own teammate. 

“C’mon, baby,” Larry coos. Gentle. God, he’s so gentle. “Show me what you _got_.”

Jordan holds his own gaze steady in the mirror, humiliation burning in the pit of his stomach but doing nothing to dampen the arousal already coiling tight within. Larry has stopped moving entirely now, entrusting Jordan to take on the brunt of the work, doing little more than maintaining his grip on Jordan’s cock and giving him one more sensation to chase. 

The sheets freeze where his knees dig into them, tendrils of frost spreading out through the bed but the sheer heat of Larry keeps Jordan going, even as snow dusts the pillow around his head and the ever-damned mirror clouds with the increasing cold. Jordan whines-- he’s so _close_ , freezing cold yet his thighs _burn_ with exertion, thrusting into that tight grip Larry has around him with as much desperation as he was rocking back onto the cock still in him, all of it on display in front of him in instant replay in his mirrored headboard. It’s too _much_ \--

Jordan comes with a choked-out gasp and a long, trailing groan as he sags against Larry’s chest, arms and thighs shaking from the effort. He provides no resistance as Larry laughs and rolls them over easily, kissing him through the aftershocks as he rocks into him until he gasps out his own release.

“You did good, bud,” Larry hums pleasantly, kissing up and down Jordan’s neck, mouthing lazily at the marks left over from early. “ _Really_ good.”

Jordan clings to the praise.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me at @slaapkat on tumblr!


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